


The Hills are Alive

by cakeisnotpie



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magic, Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bars and Pubs, Blood Magic, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Druids, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Penny Dreadful - Freeform, Violence, alternative universe, and True Blood, dark and violent world, think of this as a cross between
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:46:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 96,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is a wanderer, moving from place to place, on the run from some truths about his past. When his car breaks down in the tiny mountain town of Pittman Center, he finds a job at a local pub run by a real English woman and some unlikely people who offer friendship and belonging.  He might blame fate after meeting Phil Coulson, a historian, for playing games but then he begins to discover that there is so much more to the handsome man and Clint may not be able to avoid what's been chasing him for much longer. </p><p>Imagine a cross between True Blood and Penny Dreadful with Clint as the man caught in the middle of epic mystical forces. Be forewarned; like my other story, A Wolf in the Fold, this tale will deal with mythology and legend. But this one is going to be much darker and more violent.  Oh, and lots of sex once the plot gets rolling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Come on, baby, just a few more miles. You can wait until we get somewhere with people.”  Clint patted the faded black vinyl cover on the dashboard of his beloved Toyota 4 Runner; twenty-three years old, and it was still going. Maybe not strong, but the tires were slowly eating up the miles of winding Route 416. The lonely two-lane road headed into the mountains, connecting with  Route 73 and bisecting the Smoky Mountains National Park. Just the kind of drive Clint liked; backroads going nowhere in particular.

 

The engine rattled, loose spark plugs vibrating at the low speed of 45 mph. It wasn’t good, Clint knew that much. He’d been putting off the overhaul the engine needed; it sounded like he wasn’t going to have a choice now. As his headlights illuminated the next curve, Clint just hoped it would hold out for just a bit longer.

 

“Find me a place to stop,” Clint said to no one imparticular. “That’s all I need.”

 

Flashes of red and yellow then the glow of a neon sign appeared ahead. Parked cars lined along a gravel road that wound away from the asphalt. On the side of the hill, half hidden among the trees, a building perched, wooden porch railings decorated with a Guinness banner and a large Union Jack flag. People crowded at tables, the lights casting long shadows on the grass as well as the flock of cars haphazardly arranged between trees and around the creekside. A brilliantly lit island in a hollow of darkness; Clint eased the car in a spot under a tall pine tree as it rattled and jerked one more time for good measure and then cut off completely.

 

“Well, that answers that.” He dropped his forehead on the steering wheel and listened to the ticks of the cooling engine. To a penny, he had seventy-two dollars  and eighty three cents in his pocket. The last town he’d stopped in had been a two-nighter; a couple hundred hustling pool before the sheriff showed up for a beer and Clint drove out the next morning. Between gas and burgers, his wallet was never full, but that’s the way he liked it.  Always moving, another view, a different place to lay his head.

 

With a sigh, he opened the door as far as he could without dinging the Ford F150 next to him and squeezed out, leaving his jacket in the passenger seat. A chorus of cicadas chirped a steady rhythm as he crossed the rutted road and started up the wooden stairs. Spring rains had left muddy patches but new gravel was tamped down and puddles filled in . Bushes ran around the river stone foundation, each one neatly trimmed and the flower bed free of weeds and filled with trillium, lady slippers, and jack-in-the-pulpits. Hanging to one side, the wooden sign proclaimed this to be the Captain & the Maiden Pub; the carving of a woman in a royal gown with a foot on a fallen ship’s captain’s chest made the edges of Clint’s mouth turn up. Someone had a sense of humor.

 

Inside, the pub was full to bursting; booths lined the walls on the front and back of the left half of the room. Round tables filled the center with a stone fireplace in the middle of the far wall. To his right was a couple pool tables and some stools in front of a long counter. The bar was right in front of him, an elegant curve of natural pine, both old fashioned pub and mountain hewn rustic. A door opened down a hallway at the end and a passthru window to the kitchen gave a view of stainless steel appliances. The whole place held a touch of elegance; no neon beer signs, but posters for various brands with artistic flare. The seemingly required deer heads were absent; paintings and pottery from local artists filled the space instead. And still, it was homey and warm, the kind of place Clint knew people would hang out after work.

 

“You look like you need a drink.” The young brunette smiled up at Clint, her long hair pulled back and her lips colored a bright pink. Her black t-shirt bore the same drawing as on the sign outside. “There’s a seat open at the bar or do you want to wait on a table?”

 

“Bar’s fine.” From there, Clint could watch the whole room and see the kitchen.

 

“Okie dokie.” She waved him over as a couple came in behind him.

 

Clint slid in between a guy in a red plaid shirt and a young couple intent on sharing the same space. From his stool, he had a good vantage point of the whole place thanks to the ornate mirror, despite having his back to the door.

 

“What’ll you have?” Model beautiful, the woman looked more like she was going to a club rather than tending bar. Her blonde hair was teased tall and fell in curling waves across her bare shoulders; a spaghetti strap tank top was emblazoned with the pub’s name across her breasts, highlighting the full curves. A strip of tanned flesh was left between the hem of the tank and the low rider jeans she was wearing. Silvery shadow made her blue eyes look bigger but the heavy black liner caked into the crow’s feet at the edges.

 

“Give me a Murphy’s Irish Stout,” Clint ordered. He flashed her a smile, and she did a double take, letting her eyes slowly run over his chest and along his muscular arms. Calculation appeared and a slow heat that lit the blue deeps.

 

“You new in town or just passing through?” She picked up a clean glass and tucked it under a spout; golden liquid poured in as she pulled the handle, foaming rising along the side.

 

“Not sure yet.”

 

“Hey! Where’s my drinks?” The young brunette asked; she leaned over the far end of the bar and gave an exasperated sigh. “Jesus, Emma. I’ve got tables waiting.”

 

“In a minute, Darcy.” Emma’s voice turned cold as she snapped at the girl. Sliding the full pint to Clint, her smile returned. “Well, if you’re going to be around later, I get off at midnight.”

 

“Ah, well.” Clint wasn’t sure why he glanced to the guy on his left for help; all he got was a half-grin as the older man waggled his unlit cigar, clearly enjoying the situation. “You’re good looking and, if you had different equipment, I’d definitely be interested.”

 

Her face hardened and she pulled back. “Of course, you’re gay. That’s just great. A perfect answer for a perfectly shitty night. I shouldn’t even be here.” She turned on her heel and stomped away, glassware rattling.

 

“In town less than a half hour and you’ve already pissed off Frosty. Great going, kid.” The guy had a serious pair of mutton chops that looked like something from the seventies, but Clint was a good read of character and there was a major “don’t fuck with me” sign on his neighbor. Maybe it was the haunted shadows in his eyes or the way his muscles took up less space but felt more intimidating. Either way, Clint just shrugged good-naturedly and sipped at his drink.

 

“It’s my super power,” he joked. “Eventually, I make everyone hate me.”

 

The guy threw back his head and laughed, loud enough that some patrons turned their heads his way. “Welcome to the club,” he said, slapping Clint hard on the back. “You’ll fit right in around here.”

 

“Emma, I need a Bass Ale, two Guinnesses, and a Strongbow.” This waitress might be older, but she was a classic beauty with brown curls pulled back and impossibly green eyes. Her tone was sharp and aimed at the bartender, those eyes snapping as she put in the order. “And hurry it up; we’ve got people waiting.”

 

“I’m doing the best I can, Peggy,” Emma complained, flipping glasses upright and starting to pour the beer. “With Jane out and Scott AWOL, I’m running behind.”

 

“I appreciate you coming in at the last minute; no one expected Jane to go into labor this early,” Peggy said with a sigh. “Just do the best you can.”

 

“Peggy’s too nice for her own good,” the guy next to Clint said. “But she runs a good pub.”

 

“Labor, my ass,” Emma grumbled, half under her breath when Peggy had left. “Fifth time in two weeks Jane’s been in labor. It’s just a grab for attention from that hunky husband of hers.”

 

As Clint settled into his stool, he surveyed the room through the reflection in the mirror, letting his eyes go unfocused just the slightest bit. The warp of the silvery backing and the fuzziness around the edges coalesced into colors, the tiniest of halos outlining bodies. For most, the hue was like afternoon sunshine, pulsing with life. But mixed among there were purples and greens, browns and greys. Life took many forms beyond the normal; his mother had taught Clint that in the short time they’d had together. The sight, she called it, his ability to recognize what others were; it had saved his life more than once.

 

“Touch me again and I’ll take your hand off!” Darcy stepped away from a table, whirling on one of the guys in a John Deere t-shirt. Slicked back dark hair and a prominent scar running down from one eye, the man merely grinned as if proud of himself.

 

“Can’t blame a man for sampling the merchandise if you’re advertising,” he drawled. The other three guys at the table laughed along with him, sound edged with a hint of threat. Clint’s neighbor tensed. Peggy’s head came up, and her eyes zeroed in on the troublemaker. Surrounded by a sickly yellow, somewhere between ochre and pale green, the speaker leaned forward and blatantly eyed the scoop neck of Darcy’s tank top. “From what I hear, you need a real man. I promise I can give you more of a bang than Banner ever could.”

 

It was Emma who got the first line in, draping herself over the bar to display almost perfect swells of breasts between the unbuttoned lapels of her shirt. “If you’re offering, Rumlow, you’d be better off with someone with a little more experience. You’ll be bored in a day with Lewis there.”

 

Rumlow sat back in his seat, his drunken attention easily diverted. “I bet you could teach me a thing or two, Frost. Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

 

Beating a hasty retreat, Darcy disappeared down the small hallway into the back of the pub.

 

“I get off at 2 a.m.,” Emma replied, tapping her nails on the polished wood. “Somehow I doubt you’ll be in any state to stand up much less get it up.”

 

That drew a laugh from the others at the table; Rumlow frowned. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot and show you what I’m capable of,” he promised.  

 

Unpleasantness averted, the room settled, patrons turning back to their food and drinks or games. Clint watched the men for a little bit, puzzling over their unknown auras; in his wanderings, he was still learning, endlessly surprised by the complexity of humanity. So many twists and turns, worlds within worlds, and most people never saw any of it. Intentional blindness, that’s what he called it. How someone could be confronted with the unusual, the unexpected, and still maintain their blinkered view, he didn’t understand. If it didn’t fit into their scientific explanation, then it didn’t exist. Or they made fun of it with the likes of ghost hunting shows or alien abduction stories in tabloids.

 

“When? Now? Hell, yes. Give me fifteen. I’ve got a change in the car. Always prepared.”  Emma stopped just in front of Clint, her cellphone tight between her ear and shoulder.Even as she spoke, she was untying her apron and dropping it on the counter; her purse appeared from a lower shelf. Without a backwards glance, she headed for the door, boot heels clicking on the wood floor.

 

“What the hell?” Darcy paused at the end of the bar, an order slip in her hand. “Where’s she going? Table six is still waiting on their Long Island Teas.” Laying her tray down, she went into the back, obviously in search of Peggy.

 

Across the room, a patron called after her; another table glanced around restlessly. Food was waiting in the window, cooling. Clint took it all in; heaven forbid if he looked a gift horse in the mouth. A dead car that was going to need a lot of money to get rolling again and now a possibility to make a little cash? Fate must want him to stay around here for a while.

 

Sliding off his stool, he slipped into the space behind the bar, picking up the order slips that were unfilled. With practiced ease, he mixed a pitcher of Long Island Tea, poured three mugs full of Bass Ale, and made a Fuzzy Navel, placing them iin a neat line. Then he grabbed a tray and hit the window, separating the food by orders and wait time, taking the oldest orders first. Most restaurants went left to right when numbering tables, and Peggy’s place was no exception. He missed table ten because of the jutting fireplace, but the two couples were happy enough to wave him down and take their food. He was just going back for a second delivery when Darcy and Peggy came through the doorway.

 

“I made a pitcher for table six,” he said to Peggy. “It’s not much more than four glasses anyway, plus it might go a long way to making them happy.”

 

The brunette simply sized him up then she took a spoon and dipped it into the pitcher, sipping the mixture. She tasted, raised her eyebrows and nodded to Darcy to deliver the drinks. “You free for the rest of the evening?” she asked.

 

“Got nowhere else to be,” Clint answered with a shrug. “And I could use the money. Tended bar plenty of times before.”

 

“We’ll get busier in about an hour. Can you handle a rush?” She clearly wasn’t sure if she trusted him or not, but she was desperate, Clint could see.

 

Instead of answering, he went behind the bar and sat out four glasses. Moving quickly, he mixed four different drinks, a highball, a screwdriver, a gin and tonic, and a dirty martini, all within a minute and a half. He offered the highball to Peggy, slid the gin and tonic to the guy with the sense of humor, the screwdriver to Darcy and the martini to the woman at the end of the bar.

 

“Okay. You’re hired.” She started to turn away then turned back

 

“Clint Barton.” he held out his hand. “Great place you have here.”

 

She shook his hand firmly. “Peggy Carter. Nice to meet you”

* * *

 

Hands on his hips, Clint arched his back, stretching his aching muscles. It had been awhile since he’d been on his feet for so long, but he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed working in a bar, talking to people. Peggy hadn’t been lying about the rush; around ten, the place filled up with locals who chatted and drank as others played pool. Everyone had been interested in Clint, who he was, where he came from; he spent as much time answering questions as he did pouring drinks.

 

Logan, the guy at the bar, stuck around until closing, nursing his drinks and smoking cigars. His observations were funny and pointed; Clint learned a lot about the various characters just by the short bursts of conversation from the older man. He found out that Sam, the cook, was a veteran of two tours in Afghanistan and made a killer pot of white chili and real country cornbread. Darcy was a graduate student at the University of Tennessee in political science; she was dating a nuclear scientist who worked for Union Carbide, the aforenamed Bruce Banner.

 

Peggy was British and had moved here to be with her boyfriend, Steve, an artist who was just making a name for himself. He showed up and Clint almost dropped his teeth when the blonde Adonis, all muscles and smile and good looks, sat down on a stool and asked him his name. If Clint hadn’t seen the way Steve looked at Peggy, with dewy eyes and flushed cheeks, he might have made a play for the artist. But there was no mistaking the love between the two.

 

The crowd was mostly friendlies; Rumlow and his buddies had stumbled out around eleven, loudly proclaiming their intention to go to a better establishment after Peggy cut them off. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, even their designated driver, a big guy with overdeveloped muscles who looked uncomfortable with the chaos his friends were causing. With the disruptions gone, the pub settled into a warm, inviting place where laughter and the clack of pool balls bubbled up from the sea of conversation.

 

The one thorn in Clint’s side was Tony Stark, the kind of guy who wore a $500 hoodie with a worn Aerosmith t-shirt. Man had money, but that wasn’t the problem. Stark ordered increasingly crazy drinks to test Clint’s abilities; he started with a Sex on the Beach, moved to a Slippery Nipple, then a Screaming Orgasm, a Long Slow Comfortable Screw Against a Wall, and a Sit on My Face. When Stark ran out of ideas, Clint made him a Pop My Cherry and, finally, a Wyoming Leg Spreader. Stark proclaimed Clint the best bartender ever and tipped him with a fifty dollar bill before he weaved out with his friend Happy who, thankfully, had drank only soda. Clint watched him go, filing away the hot rod red aura that faded into gold.

 

The crowd trickled out to their own homes around one a.m.; Darcy left then, leaving only a handful of patrons to finish up their games and their drinks and mosey off by the two a.m. closing time.

 

Wiping down the bar and stowing the last of the clean glasses, Clint smiled at Peggy as she approached. “You weren’t kidding. This place was jumping.”

 

“You should see when we have a live band.” Peggy sighed as she settled onto one of the stools. “Pour me a Jamison’s on the rocks and get yourself something. You deserve it; you saved my ass tonight.”

 

“Just in the right place at the right time,” Clint shrugged as he got three glasses and poured the Irish whiskey in one for Peggy, one for him, and another for Sam who clambered up onto a second stool. “Lucky, I guess.”

 

“You handled Tony.” Peggy sipped her drink. “That’s talent, not luck. You looking for something more permanent? With Jane ready to deliver any day now, I could use a full-time, reliable bartender. Emma’s never working here again.”

 

“I’m a wanderer at heart,” Clint admitted. “But I could stay for awhile. Like I said, I could top off the wallet.”

 

“Especially if that’s your car still in the parking lot,” Sam added. “Got a puddle of radiator fluid underneath. I doubt it’ll even start.”

 

“She’s seen better days,” Clint agreed. “But she’s a work horse. A little fixing up and she’ll be good to go.”

 

“And until then? You need a lift to a hotel? Not much of a choice around here, but May Parker runs a nice guest house,” Sam offered.

 

“Nah, thanks. Won’t be the first time I’ve slept under the stars. Got an air mattress and sleeping bag in the car.” Clint didn’t miss the look the two of the exchanged.

 

“You know, I’ve got lots of room at the house, and my Grandma would skin me alive if I didn’t offer you a bed to sleep in. Her house was always open to friends. Grab your stuff and you can ride with me. And, as a bonus, I’m right near the walking trail that leads through this hollow; it’s only about a 20 minute walk to work.” Sam pushed back from the bar and gathered up the three now empty glasses. “Let me put these in the last load and I’ll be ready to go.”

 

“Hey, man, I can’t put you out,” Clint started to protest.

 

“Seriously, Gramma will know; she’s got the sixth sense about these things. It’s a big old place anyway with just me and the dog rattling around. Be nice to have someone to share the chores with.” Sam kept talking as he circled through the hall into the kitchen and tucked the glasses into a rack. “You wouldn’t know anything about carpentry, would you? A couple of the upstairs windows are jammed; the sills got wet during that big snow last year and expanded. I could use some help fixing them.”

 

Clint knew a good deal when he saw one; whatever Sam’s reason for not wanting him sleeping outside at night alone, the idea of a warm bed and a way to work off the debt appealed to him. Besides, Sam’s aura was a feathery brown and white, a natural color that spoke of a deep connection to the woods around them.

 

“If you got the tools, I can handle it. Worked construction enough to know how to do all the basic upkeeps for an old home. Even did a stent with a renovation company that specialized in restoring historic houses. We’ll get your windows fixed,” Clint promised.

 

“Now that that’s settled, how about the evening shift tomorrow? Starts at 6 and runs to close. We’ve got the twins coming in around 8; things will be crazy.” Peggy started flipping the switches, turning out the lights. “With you as primary and Sif able do both floor and bar, we should be covered.”

 

“Can do, boss,” Clint said with a grin. “I’m yours to command.”

 

“Oh, you’re going to regret that one,” Sam said, leading the way to the front door. “You have no idea the things Peggy can dream up for you to do.”

 

“One time, Sam. And I still say the combination of flavors would work.” Peggy’s eyes glowed with mirth as she shut the door and locked it behind them.

 

“Clotted cream and pimento grilled cheese.” Sam winked at Clint; the outdoor flood lights popped on as they went down the front stairs. “It was gross.”

 

They keep the banter going as they walked around the side of the bar and followed a gravel path to the front porch of a well kept cabin, tucked out of sight. Small, maybe only four rooms total, the building looked like it had grown up from the landscape around it. Plants ringed the porch where two bright red rocking chairs sat. The wooden sides were stained to match the trees and the shingle roof blended into the leaves. A light came on as they approached; Peggy took out her key and let herself in her home.

 

“Good night, all. See you tomorrow,” she said.

 

Clint made a stop at his car to grab his bags -- a duffel and a backpack -- and then climbed into Sam’s Subaru Impreza. As they drove, Sam chattered about his grandmother, the pub, life in general. Clint commented on the weather, and then they were pulling onto a gravel driveway that wound through the trees until they were far enough off the road to not hear traffic. The woods opened to a clearing with an old red brick farmhouse, the kind featured on postcards surrounded by autumn colors. White lace gables framed the eaves and a wraparound porch was shaded by a roof extension. The road wound around the side to a small two car detached garage that Sam didn’t bother to park in. He left the car tucked in by the screened in back porch and shut off the ignition. Ticks and pops followed as the engine began to cool.

 

“Beautiful place,” Clint said as way of conversation, following Sam through the kitchen door. “Mid to late 1800s? Queen Anne styles were popular then.”

 

“1872 for the main house. The first home on the property was built in 1768; the foundations are still around. Got out buildings from the early 1800s.” Sam talked as he dropped his keys on the grey laminate counter top and crossed the black and white tile floor. The kitchen was like stepping back in time to the 1950s with its white metal cabinets and silver trim. “Been in the Wilson family since the beginning. Gramma would drive up here on her golf cart and smack me if I tried to sell it.”

 

“It’s lovely.” And it was. The wood floor gleamed from constant care, each newel post on the staircase perfectly stained. “Nothing like putting down roots.”

 

“Yeah, well, sometimes roots can hold a man back or they can make you grow taller.” Sam shrugged. “Depends upon the man.”  He stopped in the middle of the braided rug in the living room. “I’ve got the lunch shift tomorrow and Bucky’s on for the night; a little prickly, but a good guy. Going to run some errands before work, so I’ll probably be gone when you get up. I’m off at 4 so I’ll be back before you have to go in. Guest room’s the second door to the left at the top of the stairs; bathroom is the first one. There’s more quilts in the cedar chest; help yourself if you get cold. Oh, and to any food in the fridge. I bring home leftovers, so there’s some chili and soup in there. Grab what you want.”

 

“I really appreciate this,” Clint said, hefting his duffel. “I’ll take a look at the windows first thing.”

 

“Nah, don’t worry about it. You’ll want to call Logan; he’s the best mechanic in town. He’ll get your car towed and give you a fair price.” Sam stopped by the cordless phone on the end table and scribbled a number down on the note pad. “He opens officially at ten, but he’s usually there pretty early.”

 

“I’m not sure I want to hear the verdict; I know it’s going to be bad.” Clint paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Again, thanks.”

 

“No problem. I’m just going to check the doors and then I’m hitting the hay.” Sam tested the front .door locks and turned off the porch light. He also rested his hand lightly on the door before heading back into the kitchen. A blue handprint ghosted on the wood, fading quickly. Now that Clint knew to look, he saw faint marks on the windows and the mantle above the fireplace. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say. Wandering had taught Clint to let sleeping dogs lie; whatever secrets this place held, he’d either figure them out or he wouldn’t. No need to lose sleep over it.

 

The bedroom was just as old fashioned as the house; a double dresser with an oval mirror sat against one wall, a tall wardrobe on the other. A wrought iron bed frame held a queen sized mattress; a worn orange double wedding ring quilt covered the bed, made from a mishmash of fabric squares, uneven stitches linking them together. Lifting the lid of the rectangular chest at the end of the bed, Clint saw more quilts, a kaleidoscope of colors; the crisp smell of cedar seeped from the red wood.  

 

He was tired; even the huge claw foot tub in the black and white tiled bathroom didn’t tempt him. Maybe he’d take a bath in the morning. For now, he’d been on his feet all night and was ready for bed. Teeth brushed and in his favorite sweatpants, the grey ones with threadbare knees, he crawled between the rose patterned sheets and turned off the lamp. In moments, his eyes adjusted to the moonlight that filtered through the lace sheers, casting shadows across the ceiling. As he sank into the soft mattress, sleep stealing upon him, Clint’s fingers closed around his medallion, the one his mother had given him, tracing the curved lines that circled and overlapped, etched into the silver.  He opened his mind; from the quilt came love, women’s fingers pushing needles with colored thread, care in every stitch. Years of history filled the room, generations of a family’s energy -- babies born, children laughing, couples fighting and making love.  Even the deaths that lingered were echoes of long and full lives. So foreign to him, the roots delving deep into one place. Wanting to stay, a home to come back to.

 

In those last seconds, he slipped out of his skin and floated through the wall, not sure if he was awake or dreaming. The forest spread dark across the mountain, occasional light shining, signs of life. And somewhere in the blackness below, a blue glow flickered among the branches, a sleeping power waiting to be woken.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll be seeing you,” he said, his eyes lingering on Clint’s face before he turned and walked away.
> 
> “Somehow, I’m sure you will,” Clint murmured to himself.

The Dodge Ram truck rocked along the gravel driveway, pulling to a halt near the front steps. A layer of dust covered the shiny black paint, mud splattered onto the sides. Balanced on the porch roof, Clint turned in time to see Logan emerge from the driver’s side. A tall man, Howlett was pure muscle, well displayed in his worn jeans and plain grey t-shirt.  His brown hair looked like he’d just rolled out of bed and ran a hand through it, standing up on either side of his head. Dark shades protected his eyes from the morning sun; a cigar hung from the corner of his mouth. In the warm light, Logan’s aura glowed a mid-tone blue, sparks of gold around the edges.

 

Sam’s dog, a hound mix with floppy ears and short legs, jumped up from where he was sunning himself on the porch and wandered over for a pat on the head and a good sniff of Logan’s jeans.

 

“Hey, Riley,” Logan said, stopping near the stairs. “You helping check the water damage?”

 

“It’s not too bad.” Clint carefully made his way across the slope, soles of his work boots gripping the tiles. “Just needs a some new wood, a little paint and the old place will be good as new.” Absently, Clint patted the eave as he swung over and started down the metal extension ladder. “She’ll hold up for another hundred years if Sam takes good care of her.”

 

“That she will,” Logan agreed. He waited until Clint had both feet on the ground before he  continued. “You want the bad news, the even worse news, or the vaguely good news?”

 

“Let me sit down then hit me with it all.” Clint walked up the porch steps and settled into one of the rockers; Logan leaned against a post. “Do I need to start saving for another car?”

 

“That’s the only bright spot; I can definitely get her running again. For a while.” Logan took out the cigar and tapped the ash into the front flowerbed. “If you want, I can call a couple of guys I know who might give me a lead on an aftermarket radiator; probably be about $300 or so with new fluid. But the real question is whether any of the fluid got into the transmission. You get yourself a strawberry milkshake problem and that’s the the death knell. We can flush the system, get her on the road, but it will only be a matter of time. Won’t know until we get in there and take her apart.”

 

“Any estimates on how much and how long?” Clint winced; none of that sounded good. Much as he loved that car, maybe it was time to think about getting another if he could find enough work to afford an old clunker.

 

“Anywhere from $800 to $1500.” Logan shrugged. “It will depend upon what we find. But I’ll make you a deal; if I open her up and it’s bad, I’ll not charge you for the labor if you let me help you sell her for parts.”

 

He felt a spike of anxiety, the old worries about money and the future and life’s roadblocks. Then he pushed them aside, took a breath, and set the rocker in motion. “Okay,” he agreed. “Let me know the verdict.”

 

“Looks like you’ll be around for awhile. Going to take time to get those parts and do the work.” Logan glanced towards the back of the house. “Tell Sam he needs to fix that garage door before winter hits. With you here, he might get it done.”

 

“Roof’s got a few rough patches, I noticed.” Clint got the message loud and clear; Sam was a good guy, so don’t be an idiot or Logan would come after him. “Wonder if Sam’s ever thought about going with tin. A nice bright red would look great with the white siding. And the sound of rain on a tin roof is worth the trouble of putting in on.”

 

“Got one on my cabin,” Logan said. He didn’t have to nod to accept Clint’s answer. “Nothing like a good thunderstorm to get to sleep.” Pushing away from the post, Logan looked up at the sun. “Gotta get going. Cars don’t fix themselves.”

 

“Thanks for coming out.” Clint followed Logan out to his truck. “Oh, hey, Sam said there was a trail close by that leads to the pub? You happen to know how to get to it?”

 

“The Old Settler’s Trail. Yeah, it runs parallel to the back of the house. You can pretty much just go straight east from the back porch and hit in within five minutes.” Logan paused, hand on the driver’s door. “Am I going to have to send a rescue party out after you?”

 

Clint grinned; oh, yes, he was at home in the forest. “Not a problem. Got a GPS, an old fashioned compass, and I know how to use both.”

 

“Good. Want to avoid talking to the sheriff as much as I can.” He climbed onto the seat. “I’ll see you later; the twins are playing tonight and Barnes is making venison stew. Wouldn’t miss it; I can give you a ride home if I’m around at closing.”

 

“I’ll take you up on that.” Clint stepped out of the way as Logan started the engine.

 

Logan paused, leaning out his window. “Do I have to tell you to stay on the trail, Barton?”

 

“Is the big bad wolf lurking out there?” Clint couldn’t help but ask. The warnings were beginning to raise his hackles.

 

“We’re in a wilderness area; we’ve got wolves and bears and snakes and all kinds of creatures out there.” Logan idly waved a hand and pressed the accelerator, driving away.

 

Last night it was Sam and Peggy. Today, Logan. There was some kind of protection on the house and people with unique auras. Lions, tigers and bears, Clint’s ass. He wasn’t that clueless; sure, people saw what they wanted to see, but he was more observant than that. And now he had the urge to do more than sit around for the next hour or so.

 

Entering the house, Clint swung through the kitchen, took the pad off the counter and jotted down what he’d need to fix the window sills, noting the measurements while they were fresh in his mind. He took Sam to heart and raided the fridge for a glass of homemade lemonade. The fresh pimento cheese looked inviting; two slices of bread and a handful of chips later, Clint’s stomach was full and he was ready to go exploring.  Curiosity was Clint’s achilles heel; give him a mystery and he had to chase it down.

 

Riley danced around his feet as he locked the back door, pocketing the key he’d found waiting on the table when he woke. The news might be filled with violence and evil, but in Clint’s experience, Sam’s trusting nature was still a common occurrence. Small towns existed where people left their doors unlocked and brought brownies to new neighbors. Of course, those were the same places where good Christians looked the other way while a man beat his wife and children. Darkness pooled in any nook and cranny it could find, working its way down into the tiniest of cracks; Clint was a realist when it came to things like that.

 

Finding the way proved to be simple; a quick walk around the edge of the forest, and Clint saw a well worn path wind between the trees in the right direction. The official trail was well-maintained and marked with small colored pegs every so often. A soft bed of fallen pine needles covered the ground, the scent strong in the air. Smaller laurel bushes huddled in clumps, their green pods ready for the winter before they would bloom again in spring.

 

This was where Clint belonged, in the forest, out among the hills; he never truly felt at ease in a city, surrounded by concrete and steel. He wasn’t joking about sleeping out under the stars; sometimes on the road, he’d pull over and find a quiet place to spend the night, nothing but a couple blankets and a pillow as his bed. Like the auras of people, he could sense the woods around him, the movement and the silences. Animals of all sizes left an echo of their passing; a squirrel skittered along a branch, nut firmly in its mouth, bound for its growing winter stash. A flash of a white tail, and a doe with two fawns ruffled the evergreen boughs as they darted away. Launching up into the sky, a hawk flew off, leaving the earth behind.

 

Rather than head towards the pub, Clint turned the other way, the wide path fairly flat through this section. A small creek ran along beside it, easily crossed with one stepping stone; the dog darted along the edges, sniffing the ground and getting distracted by every movement. The ground on either side sloped up slightly; the bends of the trail matching the twists of the creek. Within a few minutes, Clint’s mind cleared, he inhaled deeply, and let the calm wash through him. Worry fell away and the unique ambiance of the Smokies seeped into his senses. Settlers with a purpose, hardy souls who didn’t fear hardship, had traveled this way, making new lives and building new homes. Before that, there were other peoples, natives, winding their paths along the valleys and up the steeper slopes.

 

About ten minutes along the way, he saw a small marker pointing to an even smaller path  branching off to the south. Only the initials WRC were scratched into the aged wood. Curiosity got the best of him; Clint couldn’t resist stepping between the trees and following the cryptic sign. A turn uphill then a long curve through an area of dense brush, and he found himself at the end of a cleared area, the slope littered with tombstones. On his left, the stones were white and grey, polished and still easily readable. From there, they scattered about, growing older, crumbling around the edges, letters difficult to make out. And on his right were the earliest graves, their headstones little more than tumbled ruins; the only way to know who was buried there was the small copper markers someone had added recently. A ray of sunlight shone through the opening in the foliage above; almost noon, the sun was directly overhead and the little family graveyard was enveloped in the glow. Calm and peaceful, that was the emotions Clint got from the little oasis in the midst of the trees.

 

So many lives, so many stories; Clint glanced at a grey stone by his left foot and read the name. Eli Samuel Wilson. Loving son, father, and grandfather. 1897 - 1989. Close by were more Wilsons, a Daniel Eli and his wife Martha Jane. Behind were others, generations of Wilsons mixed with Rogers and a couple Barnes. The name Coulson was scribed on more markers on the right; closest to the front were Douglas James Coulson and Deirdre Leighann Coulson Rogers. He died in 1738, she in 1765, long before the United States was formed.

 

“Bet you came from England or Ireland, Doug and Deirdre.” Clint knelt down and touched just his fingers to the ground. Doug’s grave was cool, but hers radiated with reflected warmth from the sun. “And she outlived you, didn’t she? Married again.”

 

“To a much younger man,” a voice said from behind him. “That’s her second husband on the other side, Brian Joseph. A looker from what she wrote about him in her diary.”

 

Squinting in the sunlight, the man had stopped a foot or so away, his hand on Riley’s head. Medium height with receding brown hair, he was dressed in khakis and a sky blue oxford shirt. A darker tweed vest, a blue and red plaid, tied it all together. Dark rimmed black glasses highlighted the inquisitive look in his blue eyes, but Clint was fascinated most by the man’s aura. Layer upon layer of color, a spectrum of white to midnight blue pulsed like a heartbeat, shifting as he breathed. Clint had never seen anything like it.

 

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” The man offered a hand to Clint. “Phil Coulson.”

 

“Clint.” He reached out; fingers slid across the proffered palm. “Clint Barton.”

 

A wind kicked up, swirling around the tombstones, stirring the leaves. An itch started in Clint’s fingers and crawled up his arm, tiny sparks firing in his muscles. He watched as the multi-hued aura began to seep into his skin, mixing with his own deep maroon. The dog whined, stepping back, as Clint, with a jerk, pulled his hand away.

 

“Coulson?” Clint tried to sound normal, not as flustered as he felt. “That would be explain how you know about the residents here.”

 

“It’s a family graveyard, but I’m also a historian; I work for the park, give tours and write books.” Coulson’s smile was lopsided, the left side higher than the right. “You must be Sam’s new house guest and Peggy’s salvation bartender.”

 

“Um, yeah.” Clint blinked. “That’s me.”

 

“Small town. Word travels fast,” Coulson said with a shrug. “Darcy told Jane who told her husband and he told his brother .. that’s how it goes.”

 

“Yeah, I grew up in a one stoplight, blip on the map. I do know.” Actually, Waverly had two lights and three stop signs; last Clint had heard, three new fast food restaurants had gone up by the highway.

 

“So what brings you to Pittman Center?” It was a natural question, but for some reason Clint’s fingers trembled, the phantom feel of Coulson’s touch along the tips. “Our usual visitors are families at the rental cabins.”

 

“My habit of avoiding interstates.” Clint picked as his reply. “That and an old radiator that decided it was a good time to go out.”

 

“Ah, that would be the Toyota Logan towed in this morning. He stopped at the Lodge for biscuits and gravy; Mac makes the best in the county. You should try them while you’re here.” Phil took two steps up the path and bent down to pull a weed from a grave. “Place needs a fall cleaning; I have to see if Tommy’s available.”

 

“So you can tell me why the Coulsons aren’t as plentiful on the right side,” Clint asked as Phil kept weeding.

 

“Not much of a story, actually. When the government bought the land for the park, Paul Coulson took the money and moved to Knoxville. Spent it all to live high on the hog and left his kids nothing. I’m the first one to move back; I’m refurbishing an old farmhouse just over the hill.”

 

As Phil yanked out dandelion, Clint couldn’t help but notice the way his pants pulled across the curve of his ass. A very nice one. Rather than stare, Clint picked up one of the markers that had fallen over and stuck it back in the ground. “I’ve done a bit of restoration work, so I know what a job that can be.”

 

“Tell me about it; the place was retrofitted with knob and tube wiring in the 30s and they did a terrible job of it. Cut the joists and left holes in the lathe board. Always have an electrician check before you buy a house.” Straightening up, Phil brushed his hands together, knocking off the dirt. Eyeing Clint’s arm, he said, “Nice tattoo. Shield knot, right?”

 

“I don’t know; just picked it at the parlor. I like celtic stuff.” He hadn’t realized his sleeve had ridden up high enough for the design [around his left bicep to show](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/09/72/1d/09721de2cfd5efcf666ab49f2289d431.jpg). For some reason, he had the urge to roll up the cotton and show Coulson [his other shoulder](http://www.buzzle.com/images/tattoos/tribal-tattoos/shoulder-tattoo-with-celtic-pattern.jpg) covered in a fanciful piece of celtic armor. The tattoo artist had suggested it; from the first touch of the pen, Clint was in love the intricate circles and knotwork.

 

Just then, a cloud scuttled in front of the sun, a dark patch darting across the ground. A cool wind caressed Clint’s bare arms, raising goosebumps as the approaching winter made itself known. The ground under his feet seemed to crackle, like frozen dew hung on the still green grass. The strangest sense of being watched made Clint hunch his shoulders and glance around.

 

“Well, I better get back. Didn’t mean to stop but I saw you go up the trail and wanted to introduce myself. Probably a good idea for you too; they’re calling for thunderstorms to roll in soon. A cold front is coming up the valley.” Phil turned his eyes to the sky that was rapidly filling with darker and darker clouds.

 

The growing shadows were oppressive, almost like they had weight and were pooling on the ground. “Sounds like a plan,” Clint agreed although he could swear he’d heard sunny and 60s for the high. “Sam’ll be home soon anyway and I want to get started on some repairs he needs done.”

 

“If you’re looking for more work, I could use an experienced hand. Finding a good contractor who’ll come up this way is almost impossible, so I’m managing most of the work myself.” Phil started walked back to the main trail.

 

“I’m up for it; got an engine that needs fixing,” Clint replied.

 

When they got to the trail, Phil held out his hand again. Clint hesitated then made the connection again, mostly to see if it had been his imagination in overdrive earlier. It hadn’t. As soon as skin touched skin, the auras merged and Clint felt tiny shocks up his arm all the way to his shoulder this time. The leaves on the trees rattled as a gust of air blew through; Clint could swear he saw Coulson’s colors pulse. Then Coulson drew back his hand, gave that crooked grin, and tipped his head.

 

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, his eyes lingering on Clint’s face before he turned and walked away.

 

“Somehow, I’m sure you will,” Clint murmured to himself.

 

* * *

 

Sam hadn’t been kidding when he said there’d be a crowd; the place was standing room only as the Maximoff’s launched into their first set. Tables had been added and chairs lined against the walls; people were perched on the pool table and everyone was buying. Pitchers of beer were the all around favorites; Sif, a statuesque brunette whose biceps put most men to shame, handled the drafts when she wasn’t ferrying food out to tables. Clint liked her immediately; in the first ten minutes at work, she smacked two wandering hands and glared down another guy who was bugging Darcy. That left Clint free to mix drinks and after he made his first Hawkeye -- Strongbow cider mixed with purple WKD and with a shot of cinnamon flavored Aftershock -- he was inundated with requests for more. He made red, white and blue shots, stirred up lemon drop martinis and even made a Sidecar for Peggy who was through the roof with joy since mixed drinks brought in more revenue. Part of the appeal was Clint’s theatrics; he flipped bottles, shook vigorously, and danced to the music as he worked. The tight black underarmor shirt and low slung worn jeans certainly didn’t hurt. He’d even added just a touch of eyeliner to hide the tiredness of his eyes.

 

Along with Darcy, Sif, and Peggy was a teenage waitress named Kate Bishop; she ran the room like a pro, rattling off orders and joking with most of the folks. A group of her friends were front and center for the band, wearing t-shirts with the scarlet and silver logo. None of them dared to drink any liquor since the Police Chief, Scott Summers, was in attendance with his lovely red-headed wife named Jean. Back in the kitchen, Bucky Barnes, another veteran who was Steve’s best friend, worked non-stop with his prosthetic arm, a fancy one that Tony Stark -- who had tons of money, it seemed -- had help make possible. Before he started his shift, Clint had the evening’s special, a bowl of venison stew, and it was definitely worth the price of admission.

 

The first notes of the music started, and Clint was drawn in by the bleached blonde guy playing the fiddle. Low and mournful, the tune dragged emotions to the surface, bow drawing across the strings to lengthen and change the pitch of each sound. Then the drums kicked in and Pietro began a driving run, his fingers fairly flashing as he quickly plucked out each chord. Mesmerized, Clint started when the sister, Wanda, began singing, her alto voice weaving a story of a highwayman and the barmaid he loved. The song was a familiar one and yet it seemed the first time Clint had ever heard the tragic tale as they wove a world all their own with their music.

 

“Hits you in the gut, doesn’t it?” Logan asked, breaking Clint free from his fascination. On the same bar stool he was in last night, Logan chewed the end of his unlit cigar as he listened. “If she wasn’t young enough to be my daughter, I’d be at the head of the pack of admirers.”

 

“How young are we talking?” Clint eyed Pietro’s lean frame, snug denim clad legs and simple t-shirt. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’ve got a few years yet before I’m a creeper.”

 

“Twenty-two.” Logan grinned as Clint’s smile dropped off his face. “Local family adopted ‘em from one of those Eastern European countries when they were just babies. Most talented kids to come out of the area in a long while.”

 

“Damn,” Clint sighed as he started a Sloe Gin Fizz and a pitcher of Long Island Tea. He might look younger than he was, but a twelve year age difference would make him a cradle robber. So much for that idea. “Guess I’m old after all.”

 

“I prefer aged like a fine malt whiskey,” Logan came back with. “Although there is something to be said for youthful enthusiasm.”

 

The Maximoff’s cast a spell over the pub, their music weaving its way into every corner of the room, spilling onto the porch where the overflow customers were settled on what was likely to be one of the last evenings warm enough to be outside. Fast dance music interspersed with slower ballads, a fusion of celtic fiddle and indie rock that was unique. Clint filled drink orders as fast as he could, keeping the alcohol flowing as people shifted from dinner to orders of buffalo wings, chips and salsa, and cheese fries.

 

About the time of the first break, Clint realized that Phil Coulson had taken the seat next to Logan; he’d been so busy he hadn’t noticed. The man had changed into a soft black henley and jeans with a brown leather bomber jacket slung over the back of the stool. He looked good. Really good. Logan raised an eyebrow as Clint dribbled some martini as he poured.

 

“What can I get you?” Clint asked Phil. “Sorry to take so long to get to you.”

 

“You were busy,” Phil replied. When he smiled, little crinkles formed at the corner of his eyes and Clint had to drag his attention back to the task at hand. “I’ll take a finger of Glenlivet.”

 

“A scotch drinker.” Clint turned to get a tumbler and took the green labeled bottle from the shelf. “I’m more of a whiskey man myself, but I can understand the allure.”

 

Maybe it was the music, or maybe it was the memory of Phil’s early touch, but whatever was loosening his tongue made Clint’s usual reserve melt away. He should steer clear of a man with such a deep aura -- that was just common sense -- but Clint always had run straight into trouble. Why would now be any different?

 

“A little Wild Turkey now and then is a good thing,” Phil agreed, tipping back his glass and taking a sip once Clint passed it over. “But a single malt is a thing of beauty.”

 

“You are such a nerd, Coulson,” Logan said. “That’s why I like you.”

 

“Can I get you anything else?” Clint leaned on his elbows, realized what he was doing then stepped back a step. Obvious, that’s what he was being. And he didn’t know why. Well, Phil was good looking and his type but that was no excuse.

 

“Some of those homemade chips and chipotle dipping sauce,” Phil answered, ignoring Clint’s awkwardness. “Salty and spicy; a good combination.”

 

“Coming right up.”

 

Clint barely got the order in before he was pulled away; he and Sif worked through the rest of the intermission to get caught up. Once the music started again, there was little room for talk or thought of Clint’s aching feet. Food came up and was delivered, drinks poured, and everyone was having a good time. He managed quick glances, eyes to the side, catching Phil’s amused smile.

 

“So, we have an announcement,” Wanda said as Clint wiped up a spill. “We’re going to be opening for Rising Gael’s fall tour.”

 

Clapping and shouts arose from the crowd; Wanda blushed, her fair skin reddening.

 

“About time!” someone shouted.

 

“We owe it all to you guys,” Pietro added. “Thanks for the encouragement and support you’ve given us over the years.” He picked out a few notes and a roar went up. “So to end the show, we’d like to do one of our favorites.”

 

Haunting lyrics about [all souls’ night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKfbVAO6VGA) in Wanda’s voice sent a chill down Clint’s spine. Of bonfires and dancing in the dark, pulsing drums and a thousand voices. Movement stilled, and Clint had to remember to exhale, so caught up in the performance. Wanda’s aura began to flicker red and yellow like the tips of fire; silvery blue surrounded Pietro as he worked the bow across the strings. The colors began to bleed outward, mixing together, reaching out, filtering among the bodies. Life forces answered the call of the melody, burning brighter in response. The notes tugged on Clint; he leaned forward, lifting his hand to make contact with the swirls as they came his way.

 

Cold washed over his arm, a spray of seltzer from the soda gun; he jerked back and the music became nothing more than a spritely melody with excellent vocals. Wiping off his skin with a rag, Clint sheepishly glanced around; Logan was talking to Sif about her car’s starter and Peggy was bustling between tables. No one else had been as captivated as he had.

 

“The twins can hit pretty hard the first time you hear them,” Phil said. “It’s a gift.”

 

“Yeah.” Clint started refills for a couple of people at the bar. “They certainly packed the house.”

 

“That they do.” Phil pulled out some bills from his wallet and laid them on the bar. “I’m going to try and catch them before they get mobbed, wish them good luck. Have a good night and don’t let Logan drive too fast.”

 

“Good night,” Clint said. He opened his mouth, but his mind failed to come up with anything else to add. Instead, he unabashedly watched Phil walk across the room.

 

“Hey, Clint. If you’re done ogling AC’s ass, any chance of another round of thoses Hawkeyes?” Darcy leaned across the end of the bar and raised her voice to be heard.

 

He snapped his eyes around to her and had the good graces to blush. “I’m out of purple WKD. I can make them with straight vodka; they won’t be colored but will taste similar,” he told her. “Let me know what they say.”

 

With a wink, she sauntered away, and Clint got busy with the last round rush, hoping his flaming face would be attributed to the overheated room and not being caught in the act. Somehow, he doubted no one else had noticed. But he was wrong. Not a single word was said, no jokes made about his obvious interest. On the ride back to Sam’s house, Logan talked about the motorcycle he was working on, dropping Clint off at the front porch where a light burned by the door. Clint let himself in, locking the door behind him. Riley padded down the stairs and nosed Clint’s hand until he got a nice scritch behind the ears.  The dog followed Clint up to the bedroom, sniffed around the white eyelet bed skirt, and then wandered back out into the hall.

 

The house welcomed him, the sheets cool against his skin as he slipped between them. Humming to himself, he snuggled into the mattress, eyelids heavy, the song sliding into his dreams like a soundtrack of his unconscious desires.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking down, he saw that Phil had pushed up his sleeves; twining around muscular forearms were dark blue lines, a celtic pattern that cornered and spiraled up under the edge of fabric. As he watched, the tattoo lifted from the skin and shimmered, snaking to new positions. Clint blinked, expecting the lines to pop back in place, but they kept moving. Entranced, Clint lifted a hand and touched Phil’s skin. The second he made contact, the tattoo coiled around the spot and sent questing tendrils up Clint’s finger. Dark blue bled to purple; scrollwork appeared on the back of his hand and circled his wrist before he yanked it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: there's violence, an assault and some threats in this chapter.

“So,” Kate Bishop was waiting for her order to come up. “You’ve traveled, right? What’s your favorite place you’ve ever been?”

 

The lunch crowd on Sunday was larger than Clint had expected; a lot of people dropped in after church to have Sam’s chicken and dumpling pie.  After the long night before, Clint was glad to be on the afternoon shift. Now that it was almost three, the place was starting to clear out and they had time to chat. 

 

“That’s a difficult one.” Clint kept stocking bottles in the cooler as he answered. “I always like where am I until I don’t.”

 

“Seriously, Barton, help a girl out here. I’m trying to live vicariously through you, so tell me about some place I’ll probably never visit.” She twirled her round tray over her forearm and back. “Dad and the Stepmonster get to go places; I’m stuck in this small town.”

 

“It’s a nice town, all things considering,” Billy, the bus boy, said as he carted a load of dishes towards the kitchen. “Could be a lot worse.”

 

“Yeah, thanks, Kaplan.” Kate scrunched up her face and stuck out her tongue at the other teen. “But your family takes vacations together, so you don’t get a vote.”

 

“Because Myrtle Beach is so exotic,” he answered with a huff and a grin. “I brought you a t-shirt.”

 

“Food’s up.” Sam placed the two plates piled high with steaming pie and gravy. “And it was a nice t-shirt, you have to give him that much.”

 

“Oh, it’s gang up on Kate day, is it?” She scooped up the plates and balanced them deftly on the tray. “I see how it is.”

 

Clint didn’t bother to hide the smile on his face as she strode into the dining area; the good-hearted banter made the place feel even more comfortable. Slipping into the job was one thing; becoming a part of the family so quickly … three days … was another. Usually, he held himself separate for a while, a trial period, before getting closer. But that was impossible to do with Sam. Clint had woken to the smell of coffee and found fresh biscuits when he came downstairs. He’d tried to talk about places to rent while he was in town, but Sam would have none of it. Even Riley had dropped his head on Clint’s knee and looked up with soulful eyes when Clint said he couldn’t abuse Sam’s hospitality.

 

Truth was, in Sam’s grandmother’s bed, he had slept better than he had in a good few months. Maybe it was the quiet location, surrounded by the national forest. Or maybe the loving memories and family history. Having a warm lump of dog clamber up and settle on the foot of the bed certainly helped. But Clint was pretty sure the nightly ritual of Sam touching the doors had a lot to do with why he felt so safe.

 

“Hey there, Katie girl, you’re looking mighty fine today.” Brock Rumlow came through the front door, two of his friends from the other night on his heels. Today he wore a dark blue henley with ragged cuffs and a pair of jeans. Despite being an asshole, Rumlow had a nice body, Clint had to admit. Didn’t mean he was interested in that type of jerk. “Come on over and sit on my lap, baby.”

 

Kate skirted around the outstretched arms as Rumlow came towards her. “Yuck. No thanks,” she replied, lifting the edge of the bar and slipping inside.

 

“Aw come on; you’re eighteen. That makes it legal.” With a dirty grin, he slid into a booth seat. “How about you take my order and fill it for me?”

 

Clint saw Kate tense; with Peggy in the office, she was the only waitress working right now. “I got this,” Clint told her, taking an order pad off the bar.

 

“Sorry, guys, but you’re at my table,” he said, walking towards them “Looks like I’ll be the one doing the filling.”

 

The two guys’ faces went slack -- Clint still didn’t know their names -- and they glowered at him. Nothing like some good old fashioned homophobia to change the subject. But Rumlow, after a second of surprise, stretched an arm across the back of the booth, tilted his head and slowly ran his eyes along Clint’s body, starting with his boots and ending with his face. He made sure to pause at the crotch on the way up.

 

“Well, now, that’s an interesting offer.” The look on Rumlow’s face was predatory, the heat in his eyes unsettling. “Been awhile, but I think I remember how to break in a wild horse.”

 

Rumlow’s aura flared, turning dark around the edges; Clint’s stomach coiled tight, his fight or flight instinct kicking in. He actually shifted his weight onto one foot in order to step back, but the tension squeezed the wall he kept his secrets behind, and it gave just the tiniest bit, releasing a thread of anger. He planted his feet, rested a hand on the table, and leaned forward.

 

“Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about me,” he said, voice pitched low. “I can more than handle myself. Now, place an order, behave, or get the hell out of here.”

 

Stone cold blue eyes gazed at Clint, Rumlow’s jaw clenched and his hand curled into a fist. “Don’t mess with me, boy. You’ve got no idea what you’re getting into.”

 

The thread wrapped around Clint’s throat and tightened across his chest. “Don’t rightly care. Leave the girls alone.” Clint stood up. “Now, what will it be?”

 

“Let’s go,” one of the others hissed. “We’re not supposed to cause trouble. He said to keep a low profile.”

 

“He can go to hell,” Rumlow spat back. Then he took a moment and gathered himself together. “Fine, let’s go. But I won’t forget this.” Clint stepped back as they stood up; Rumlow brought his face close to Clint’s for a parting shot. “Watch your back, boy.”

 

No one moved until the door swung shut behind them then Kate sagged against the bar and  Sam stepped out of the hallway, frying pan griped tight. Clint stayed stock still, drawing in long deep breaths; anger receded ever so slowly, loosening its hold and retreated back behind the wall.

 

“You’ll need to be careful,” Sam said. “Brock knows how to hold a grudge.”

 

“Yeah, well, he can bill me.” Clint’s fingers unclenched, leaving his palms sweaty. “Idiots like that drive me crazy.”

 

“And they can be dangerous,” Kate added. “Thanks, Barton. I owe you one.”

* * *

 

Grey clouds hung in clumps, the intermittent wind stirring then leaving them to languish. Under the shade of the trees, Clint felt the slightest chill in the air, a pre-cursor to the coming change of seasons. Orange crept along the edges of leaves, green giving way. Walking back to Sam’s house, shift finished, and a paycheck in his pocket, Clint ran mental calculations on how long it would take to pay for his car. Peggy was generous; everyone made at least minimum wage above and beyond tips. The jar on the bar had been full last night; Clint had split it 60/40 with Sif, at her insistence that she take a smaller share. At this rate he’d have a good bankroll in a month, enough to either get Betsy back on the road or pick out another used car. He tamped down the urge to talk to Logan about  motorcycles -- a car was the most logical choice -- and thought instead about Sam’s Subaru with four wheel drive.

 

He didn’t see it coming. The metal bat slammed into his stomach, knocking the breath out of him and sending pain radiating throughout his body. Before he could react, the bat swung into the back of his knees; his legs gave way and he crashed to the earth, throwing his hands out. A sharp pain bit into his palms; as he turned his eyes to see his attacker, another blow landed across his back and his head hit hard, a rock slicing his scalp.

 

A heavy weight came down on his neck, pinning him in place.

 

“Stay down, boy.” Rumlow’s voice rumbled. “My foot’s itching to snap your neck. Don’t give me a reason.”

 

 “Son of a bitch,” Clint hissed. Red dripped in his eye, blood catching on his eyelashes; his fingers scrabbled in the dirt and he bucked, trying to throw Rumlow off. “Let me …”

 

The words died as the boot ground down on Clint’s throat; he choked, gasping for air.

 

“I will snap your neck,” Rumlow told him. “Your ass is mine, Barton. Accept it and this will go a lot easier for us both.”

 

A sudden fear sank into his gut, winding itself tighter and tighter.

 

“I’m going to enjoy showing you who’s boss.”

 

Anger flashed behind his eyes; nails clawed the earth, digging up dirt and gravel.

 

“Going to see if you’re as good as you think you are …”

 

Clint snaked one hand up Rumlow’s leg, found the pressure point and pinched. As soon as the pressure let up, Clint rolled, throwing his other handful right into Rumlow’s eyes. The dark haired man roared as he stepped back; Clint came up and made a feint to the left, avoiding Rumlow’s wild swing. He landed one solid punch to Rumlow’s shoulder then the bat caught him in the side. Pain exploded as it connected with bone; Clint stumbled back a step, caught his balance, the kicked Rumlow hard in the gut. A feral grin spread across the man’s face.

 

“Oh, this is going to be even better than I thought,” he said before he launched himself at Clint, one handed hold on the bat.

 

Dodging the length of metal, Clint came up under Rumlow’s arm with an uppercut, managing a glancing blow on the chin. Then Rumlow got a hand in Clint’s hair and yanked, dragging him forward. Sweeping his feet out from under him with the bat, Rumlow knocked Clint over, pressing him down as he rained blows on Clint. Curling in on himself, Clint tried to protect his head and stomach as he took the brunt of Rumlow’s anger.

 

“Gonna do what I want,” Rumlow gritted out through clenched teeth,”then dump your body where no one will ever find it.”

 

He couldn’t breathe, lungs tight and throat closed. Each hit was a shockwave; too much power, too strong -- Rumlow had the upper hand and Clint was usually damn good in a fight. Teeth rattled, blood obscured his sight, and the wall trembled under the onslaught.  The real possibility that he was about to die shook his resolve; bits began to peel off and the anger turned chilly, cooling as it seeped into Clint.

 

“You’re … an idiot.” Clint coughed and blood splattered on the ground. “You threatened me in front of witnesses.”

 

“You think I don’t have an alibi already set up? Nobody’s going to miss you; I’ll be the only one who knows.” Rumlow kicked out with his boot, driving the steel toe into soft flesh.

 

A calm settled over Clint; his muscles relaxed and he started to give way, let the other part of himself out of its box.

 

“No, you won’t.”

 

Rumlow paused, foot raised for another strike; he glanced over his shoulder. Lifting his head, Clint could only see out of one eye. Phil Coulson stood in the middle of the path, bomber jacket on over a light blue polo shirt and another pair of khakis. From his position, Clint would see the worn deck shoes on Phil’s feet.

 

“This is none of your business, Apostate,” Rumlow practically growled. “You promised to stay out of our way.”

 

“I believe what I said was that I’d maintain the peace.” Phil seemed at ease, his hands tucked loosely in his pockets. “I sincerely doubt he knows that you’re about to commit another murder.”

 

“You think you’re so high and mighty?” Rumlow stalked towards Phil, Clint all but forgotten. “We’ll see about that.”

 

“I agree. Go crawling back to your Master and explain why you’re too busy beating up civilians to do as he asked.” Phil remained nonplussed, shrugging as if he didn’t care. “Let’s get his opinion.”

 

“Fuck you, Coulson.” Rumlow hefted the bat over his shoulder and glared down at Clint. “I’ll be back for you, boy. You can count on it.”

 

Rolling up tighter, Clint clenched every muscle, fighting against the thing that was trying to claw its way out of him, flaying his insides. Pain came in waves, sharp aches and slicing spasms, but he had to control this. He pictured the wall, whole and solid, shoving it all back down into the depths and sealing it away.

 

“Clint?” Phil’s hand was gentle on his shoulder. “Are you …”

 

“A minute,” Clint gasped out. “I just need a minute.”

 

Every so slowly, he came back to himself, using his injuries as a focus. Breathing, counting, identifying the different damage to his body. He could expand his lungs; his ribs hurt like hell but they weren’t broken. Slowly, he stretched his legs; his left knee made its complaint known, but he could bend it.

 

“I’m okay.” He splayed a palm on the dirt and pushed up.

 

An arm slipped around him and took most of his weight as he clambered to his feet. The world spun; he grabbed onto the Phil’s hand to keep from toppling back over.

 

“Okay, ‘m not fine.” His voice slurred ever so slightly. “Wouldn’t turn down a drink.”

 

“Might not be the best idea, at least not right away.” Phil helped him put one foot in front of the other, easing them off the trail and onto a side path. “Let’s get to the house first.”

 

It was a testament to how bad things were that Clint didn’t notice they weren’t going to Sam’s until he stepped onto the porch of an old stone farmhouse. He blinked, taking in the rectangular structure; chinking was missing between river rock, the windows needing a fresh coat of paint. They entered through the back door into a kitchen that was stuck in the 1940s. Light blue Geneva metal cabinets with aluminum trim and a white tile countertop. A Roper range that had seen better days, missing its burner covers.  Green vinyl covered chairs at the table; only the refrigerator was a more recent model, a white Whirlpool from the ‘70s.

 

“Weren’t kidding,” Clint got out before he clenched his teeth to handle the jolt of sitting in the chair Phil pulled out. “Needs work.”

 

“She’s got good bones.” He opened a door into what looked like a pantry filled with shelves; bandages, a medical kit, and some glass jars appeared on the table.”Let me get you cleaned up and we’ll see where the blood’s coming from.”

 

“I hit my head on a rock; scalp wounds bleed like the dickens,” Clint explained. For some reason, it was important that Phil knew what had happened. “Son of a bitch jumped me from behind.”

 

“So, he didn’t draw blood himself?” Phil asked as he came back from the sink with a metal bowl filled with warm soapy water. He dipped a dishrag and brushed it along Clint’s temple; it came away bright red. With soft strokes, he methodically wiped Clint’s skin..

 

“He would have eventually.” Clint closed his eyes as Phil washed the sticky mess away. “He had plans.”

 

Occasionally, the tips of Phil’s fingers brushed along Clint’s skin. “There, it’s not as bad as it looks. A butterfly bandage and some salve should fix it.”

 

“Hey, that’s good news.” Clint opened his eyes; Phil was so close he could see the crenellations in the blue irises. “I’d prefer to avoid a big hospital bill.”

 

“You’re pupils are dilated a little, but I don’t think you have a concussion. So we can risk some pain medicine.” Phil grabbed a bottle from the table. “Let me get you some water.”

 

“Nah, don’t need it.” Clint dry swallowed the two white pills Phil handed him. “Tough guy, that’s me.” He ruined the effect by coughing which hurt like hell as his chest contracted. “Oh, shit.”

 

A glass pressed to his lips; he swallowed the water in large gulps.

 

“You partial to that shirt?” Phil asked as he sat the glass on the table.

 

Blood stained the neckline and spattered down the front of the once blue henley; he had trouble focusing on it. “Nah, it’s nothing .”

 

Phil hummed in replied, taking a pair of kitchen shears and sliding them under the soft cotton hem. He cut up the middle, easing the fabric away from Clint’s skin as he went. Once he sliced through the collar, he peeled it back; Clint’s chest and stomach was mottled by angry red marks that were already turning dark. Gently probing, Phil moved his fingers along Clint’s ribs; the touches made Clint gasp. Then Phil opened a jar and scooped up something white and gloppy; he began to rub it into the blossoming bruises.

 

“This will help with the pain,” Phil told him as he spread the cool cream. A pleasant scent tickled Clint’s nose with a hint of sinus cleaning mint..

 

Looking down, he saw that Phil had pushed up his sleeves; twining around muscular forearms were dark blue lines, a celtic pattern that cornered and spiraled up under the edge of fabric. As he watched, the tattoo lifted from the skin and shimmered, snaking to new positions. Clint blinked, expecting the lines to pop back in place, but they kept moving. Entranced, Clint lifted a hand and touched Phil’s skin. The second he made contact, the tattoo coiled around the spot and sent questing tendrils up Clint’s finger. Dark blue bled to purple; scrollwork appeared on the back of his hand and circled his wrist before he yanked it away.

 

“...from the chair?” Phil was asking. The kitchen came back into focus and Clint realized Phil was standing up, fingers catching the edges of his shirt at the collar.

 

“What?” Clint missed something.

 

“Can you lift up from the chair?” Phil repeated patiently. Shifting his weight, Clint winced as he sat forward and let Phil peel cloth down his left arm.

 

“What did you give me?” Clint asked, watching Phil wash the drying blood away. “The pills?”

 

“Just Motrin,” Phil said. He stopped, his fingers resting on Clint’s bicep. “Are you feeling light headed?”

 

“A bit.” He felt like he’d taken something stronger, but he didn’t want to tell Phil his tattoo was alive.

 

“That’s the salve. It’s got napeta cataria to help relax the muscles; that’s the mint you’re smelling.” Phil tapped Clint’s other shoulder and pulled off the ruined shirt. With a hum of approval,Phil brushed along the lines of the armor tattoo.  “That’s gorgeous art.”

 

Clint leaned towards the table and Phil let out a little groan, low in his throat as he saw the design that spread from shoulder blade to shoulder blade over Clint’s back. Celtic scrollwork formed a stylized outline of a hawk in flight, wing span displayed and filled with delicate lines.

 

“Gods,” Phil breathed. He laid his warm palm over Clint’s spine and whispered, “Arsaidh sin, a eoúin Accla, innis dúinn adbur t' echtra atá accam co séghda h' accallam a hénbérla.”[1]

 

The lyrical words soothed Clint even though he had no idea what they meant.  For once, the familiar ache of maintaining control receded, the pain easier to handle. “What’s that mean?”

 

“A bit of old poetry. I’m afraid my head is full of useless bits.” The hand left and Clint felt the loss instantly. “Your tattoo is … elegant.”

 

“Got the hawk in St. Louis.” Surprisingly, Clint was able to sit back without nearly as much pain. “That salve is working, I think.”

 

“You’re still going to be in a lot of pain tomorrow.” Phil started with the cream again, rubbing lower on Clint’s back. “Good thing the pub’s closed on Mondays.”

 

“Oh, damn,” Clint turned in the chair and hissed as his torso twisted, fingers digging into his pocket for his phone. “I need to call and warn Kate; Rumlow’s the type to take his anger out on her for the hell of it.”

 

“Add the police chief to that list too. Scott needs to know Rumlow’s on a rampage; he’s been building a file against Brock, trying to get people to press charges,” Phil said. “He’ll send officers to protect Kate.”

 

Clint nodded then wished he hadn’t. “Agreed. What’s his number?”

* * *

 

Scott Summers was young for his position, but he knew what he was about; his questions were insightful and to the point, not making the interview longer than necessary. Despite the salve, ice packs and compression rap, Clint was dragging, medication making him sleepy. By the time Sam got off work and showed up to take him back to the house, Clint admitted he needed a helping hand out to the car and to the couch once they arrived. As much as he wanted to go straight to bed, he needed to put something on his stomach to keep the ibuprofen from chewing up the lining. Sam warmed him up a piece of chicken and dumpling pie he’d brought home; along with it, Peggy had sent a piece of chocolate cake and some homemade lemonade. Once Clint started in on his food, he discovered he was hungry; he polished off the pie and all but some of the icing of the rich cake. While he fielded the phone calls, Sam managed to produce a pillow and quilts, making a comfortable nest on the couch so Clint didn’t have to go upstairs. Within minutes of taking another dose, he was fast asleep.

 

_The ground chilled his feet, the leaves brushing his arms as he passed through the trees. Shadows flowed between the boles, haunting the corners of his eyes, the rolling gait of horses and graceful flight of birds. Wind whipped at his thin cotton sleep pants, raising goosebumps on his bare chest. He ran from patch of light to patch of light, no path to follow; water flowed but he didn’t pause, splashing through it, rocks shifting under his weight. A hound bayed in the distance,  hooves hit the earth, and wings stirred the air._

 

_He stumbled, catching himself on a branch and spinning around instead of going down. Behind, a darkness loomed; a wave of fear pushed him onward. The forest seemed to part before him, distances distorted and trunks bending away from him. Nothing looked familiar; he was lost, scrambling through the same woods over and over again._

 

_“Where are you going, boy?” Brock Rumlow blocked his path; two black leather straps crossed over his tanned chest, white runes running their length. “We’re not done yet.”_

 

_Dogs darted past him as they lunged for Rumlow, taking him down in a sea of black fur and white teeth. Clint didn’t pause, horses’ breath on his neck; he veered to the left and came to the edge of a clearing flooded by moonlight. At the center stood a heel stone, carvings etched into the granite surface; his toes sank into clover, spongy and soft as he crossed the distance to stop at the foot of the monolith._

 

_“You’re in danger,” Phil warned. He curled his hand around Clint’s bicep, just below the cuff tattoo. His blue aura bled into Clint’s skin and purple lines crossed, running along the existing ink. “Let me help you.”_

 

_The stone was cool on his back as Phil leaned in; the first brush was light, as unreal as the dream. Then the thunder clapped and the wind whistled through the leaves and Clint was kissing Phil like he was a drowning man in need. Bodies never touch; only their lips and Phil’s one hand. And yet it was like they were intertwined, sharing the same space in the leeward of the stone, protected from the storm._

 

_“What are you doing to me?” Clint whispered._

 

_“Waking you up.” Phil squeezed Clint’s arm. “Wake up, Clint.”_

 

Clint’s eyes flew open; his chest heaved with quick breaths. The clock on the mantle ticked the seconds by and Riley stirred, lifting his head from where he lay on the carpet to look askance. Everything was exactly as it had been when he’d fallen asleep; the door glowed with the faintest trace and the moonlight came in through the front window. There, lit from behind, just beyond the porch, a black horse pawed the ground, it’s rider too tall to be human, long antlers spreading from a feathered scalp. Eyes glowed yellow, round like an owl’s, and Clint drew in air, preparing to shout a warning.

 

Then he blinked, and the figure was gone, nothing there but the edge of the swing and the shadow of the trees.

 

[1]Relate now, O Bird of Achill, Tell us the substance of thy adventures; I am well able to converse with you in bird-language.  (The first lines of “The Hawk of Achill,” an ancient celtic poem)

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. Clint makes friends and a date. Phil makes the best herbal remedies. And Phil's old friends come into the picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep promising sex and violence and we'll get there starting in the chapter after this. Got to get things set up first.

“Rumlow’s in a cell.” That was the first thing Sam told him when he woke. “His friends didn’t even vouch for him. I think he finally crossed the line.”

 

Clint tried to push himself up; he managed but it wasn’t elegant. The muscles in his stomach complained, every tiny move causing aches and pains. Before Clint could scoot back, Sam put the pillow in place and got another dose of pain medicine. Sipping from the water bottle on the coffee table, Clint swallowed the white pills and hoped they took effect soon.

 

“Sounds good to me.” Clint tried not to groan out loud as he settled upright. “He’s a piece of work.”

 

The good natured smile faltered on Sam’s face for a second. “You have no idea,” he said. “You should eat; Darcy brought by some cinnamon rolls from the Lodge. Mac sent them over.” Sam walked into the kitchen but kept talking. “Peggy was by earlier; said not to worry; you have a job at the pub as long as you want it. And Phil stopped in with a jar of his miracle bruise cream. He should package and sell that stuff.” A huge pastry filled the small plate Sam carried back in the room. “Want some coffee? I’ve got a fresh pot.”

 

“Oh, yes, please. But you don’t have to wait on me. I can …” Clint started to protest but Sam cut him off.

 

“I’ve known Kate Bishop since she was born; my grandma took me with her to deliver food to the family on the day they brought the baby home.” Sam sat the plate on the table. “So, yeah, I do have to. And don’t be surprised if there’s a stream of visitors today. The ladies of the church will probably bring dinner.”

 

Clint glanced down; he was wearing worn sweat pants and a hoodie which had been easier to put on and zip up than a regular shirt. “Sounds like there’s already been a lot of people. Can’t believe I slept through it all.”

 

“It’s almost eleven,” Sam told him. “You were dead to the world, so I let you rest.”

 

It had taken a long time for Clint to get back to sleep after his dream. When he did, he must have fallen deep and hard not to be bothered by the comings and goings. Sleeping this late was something he rarely did anymore.

 

“Well, I’m ready to get up and try out that big bathtub. A nice hot soak sounds pretty good. After I finish this amazing looking cinnamon roll.” Clint wasn’t going to let that go by; creamy icing was melting over the brown yeasty bread and his stomach rumbled. He picked up the fork and cut off a bite. “I really do appreciate all this; honestly, you don’t even know me. I could be a serial killer or something.”

 

“Trust me, I think we’d know.” Sam laughed, his smile lighting up his face. “That reminds me. Phil also brought some his epsom salts with a special herb mixture; I’ll put them out by the tub. They’re great to relieve aches and pains.”

 

“Creams and bath salts … what is he? Some kind of apothecary?” Clint joked around a mouthful of the most blissful thing he’d eaten in a long time.

 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Something like that,” he answered, heading up the stairs.

 

“Something like that my ass,” Clint muttered as he picked up the whole roll and took a second big bite.

 

A stomach full of far too much sugar and carbs along with an obscene amount of coffee made Clint ready to face the prospect of climbing the stairs. With Sam right behind him, Clint shuffled his way to the bottom and tackled each riser slowly; his left knee was the worst of the two, so he led with the right and lifted his left leg straight instead of bending it. Took a lot longer to get to the top, but Clint made with shaking legs and trembling fingers, tired enough to not complain when Sam started the water running and stoppered the tub. Clint grabbed a clean pair of underwear and sweats -- neatly folded after Sam had washed them -- then he shooed Sam out of the room, determined to manage on his own.

 

Phil’s salts smelled of eucalyptus and spearmint, clearing his sinuses as he took a sniff. He added a liberal amount to the water, watching it dissolve into the clear depths. Then he took off his hoodie and his pants, kicking them into the corner and stood before the mirror to take stock of his injuries. His left side had taken the brunt of the damage; deepening purple splotches grew darker near his hip bone, curling around from front to back, the edges already turning green. Mottled patches ran upwards and a smattering of bruises marred the backs of his thighs.  Near his hairline, a butterfly bandage held together angry red skin, wrinkled edges forced together, surrounded by another growing bruise that extended down to his eye, making him look like a losing prize fighter. Hair spiked at all angles, dirt smattered throughout.

 

He turned off the taps and sat on the edge of the tub, the aroma inviting, then he slid into the heat, skin flushing as he slipped beneath the surface. Sam had left a combo shampoo and liquid soap on a metal holder attached to the wall; ducking his head under the water, Clint squeezed a generous dollop  in his hand and started to scrub his dirty scalp. A loofah made short work of creating suds; he didn’t skimp as he circled up his legs first, starting with his toes. Next was his chest and stomach, ignoring the aches. Finally his arms and neck, white bubbles on slick skin. Down from the shoulder, over his bicep …

 

Dark black scrollwork was lined with purple, a shadow behind the original. Clint’s mind flashed immediately to his dream, Phil’s hand on arm, the feel of Phil on his lips. But that wasn’t real, so that couldn’t be it. Maybe he’d taken a blow there and … no the purple was a perfect copy as if the artist had made the lines at the same time as the black. Rationally, there was no way it could have gotten there.

 

But logic didn’t have answers for everything. Clint hadn’t forgotten the conversation between Rumlow and Coulson. Brock calling Phil an apostate and Phil telling Brock to run back to his master. All the discussion about Phil staying out of Rumlow’s business. Remaining quiet had seemed the best course of action; whatever was going on, Phil had saved Clint’s life, he was sure of that.

 

Clint spent six months in an ashram in the Simi Valley while he was getting his act together; he knew what an apostate was, someone who’d fallen out of  their faith. If Phil had belonged to some sort of group and had a change of heart … some didn’t take it well when followers left. Look at the Church of Scientology with their vows of secrecy. Although Clint couldn’t imagine Phil with his deep aura being an adherent of their teachings; his herbal skills alone spoke of a different kind of learning. No, Phil was probably a part of something older, more primal than a twentieth century religion. Naturopathic remedies were still used in many parts of the world including the United States. Clint’s mother had been a follower of the old ways, her family steeped in what Clint’s father called superstition and hokum.

 

Water lapped at his toes as he braced his feet and sank his chest further down into the liquid heat. The salts did their work, easing the tension in his muscles and driving away the pain. Rinsing, Clint watched the water go foggy, obscuring his body beneath a soapy film. Condensation covered the mirror, droplets running down the slick surface. Whatever was happening, at this moment Clint was relaxed and as safe as he ever was. So he let his eyes drift closed, the smell tickling his nose and heat settling into his bones.

 

HIs mind drifted to Phil’s kitchen, the salts reminding Clint of the scent of the cream and warm hands rubbing across his chest. Phil had touched his arm then, and Clint remembered the way Phil’s own tattoo had seemed to move, caressing his fingers. He’d thought it an illusion brought on by a blow to the head, but now he wasn’t sure. Every time they’d come into contact, Phil’s energy had seeped across to Clint; maybe it was Clint’s attraction to the man, the way his body responded. Lust was a powerful motivator after all. That had been clear in Clint’s dream; Phil’s kiss had woken him from a nightmare of being chased.

 

He rubbed a finger across his lips, thinking of how Phil had tasted, the power behind the simple touch. HIs cock stirred and he sank into the daydream; no harm no foul in imagining more. Hands curled around his arms, holding him in place. LIps traveling along his chin and down his neck. Bare skin rubbing against his own. His fingers threading through brown hair, Phil on his knees, wet mouth around Clint’s cock. A long, lazy release as Clint fisted himself, a pair of blue eyes urging him on..

 

The stairs were easier going down; Clint intended to spend the rest of the day on the couch with his old laptop, doing a bit of reading. But then Darcy showed up at 2 p.m., a very pregnant and very petite Jane Odinson in tow, and Sam ran out to the store. They’d brought homemade oatmeal raisin cookies; Jane ate four while they chatted about how Clint was feeling and told stories about Jane’s pregnancy. Clint had taking a quick liking to Darcy -- he had a thing for mouthy, strong women -- and Jane, although being quieter and more introverted, had a wicked sense of humor. They stayed until Sam returned, Darcy promising to bring her boyfriend by tomorrow to keep Clint company. Subtle they weren’t; like a conspiracy, someone had decided Clint shouldn’t be alone. Given that Rumlow had friends about, Clint could have accepted that explanation, but he suspected it was more. This “master” of Rumlow’s was still a mystery, and Clint was a loose end to Rumlow’s mistakes.  

 

True to Sam’s word, two ladies in Sunday dresses and matching hats knocked on the door about five. As they clucked over Clint’s injuries, giving advice about ways to decrease the bruising and happily discovering Phil had taken care of him, a month’s worth of food was delivered to the kitchen. A platter filled with still hot fried chicken, half a roasted ham, slaw, a loaf of bread, sliced farmer’s cheese, deviled eggs, and a series of casseroles -- twice baked potato, green bean, broccoli, and okra. Then there were the desserts. Cherry pineapple heavenly hash, brownies, cupcakes, and apple, lemon meringue, and strawberry rhubarb pies. A gallon of both lemonade and sweet tea were left on the counter.

 

He and Sam spent the evening eating and watching senseless television; Sam admitted his addiction to Dancing with the Stars; Clint didn’t mind once he got an eyeful of the professional dancers. The next day was similar; Darcy’s boyfriend, Bruce Banner, kept Clint company while Sam worked the lunch shift. The scientist was cute with his curly brown hair and rumpled tweed jacket; he knew all sorts of trivia and could eat his weight in casseroles and pie. He also had an aura that, for the most part, was a normal glow but occasionally flared green then faded away. Since neither of them had seen the last James Bond movie, they grabbed the DVD from Sam’s extensive collection and spent an enjoyable afternoon immersed in Skyfall. Dinner time brought Steve and Bucky to the house; Bucky made no bones about being there to help polish off all the food. Between the four of them, they made quite a dent in the overstuffed refrigerator; Steve turned on a Braves game, his watercolor aura relaxing everyone, and Clint ate so many brownies he had to waddle up the stairs.

 

Wednesday, Sam was on evening, so he and Clint circled the house and garage in the morning, making plans for the various tasks Sam wanted to get done before winter and letting Clint stretch his legs. Healing faster than normal -- he’d been beaten up a few times before -- Clint figured it was the cream and the bath salts speeding things along. About three, Kate brought Billy and his boyfriend Teddy for babysitting detail although Clint was older by over a decade.  He didn’t have to wonder why they were his guardians of the day; all three had auras that shimmered in different colors.  For a tiny town, Pittman Center had more than its share of unusual people.

 

By Thursday, Clint was going stir crazy so he tagged along with Sam to the Food City, picking up a couple six packs to replace the ones he’d been drinking. They stopped into Blue Moose for burgers -- Clint’s cajun blue ranked as one of the best he’d ever had -- and then headed back into the mountains. He was limping by the time they got back to the house and more than ready to sit on the couch after another round of bruise cream. Off for the evening, Sam puttered around, cleaning and putting things in order, chatting about this and that, nothing important. It surprised Clint to realize it was a week ago that his car died; already he felt himself sinking into this place, wanting to take root. He’d slipped into life here like there was a perfect Clint shaped slot just waiting for him to fill.

 

The days passed lazily. But the nights? The nights were a different story. When the sun went down and he fell asleep, he dreamed. Forests and shadows and being chased.  Rumlow with his bat and his father with his fists. Black dogs that nipped at his heels and danced around him.  Winds that rattled the trees and tore at clothing. And every one ended with him in the clearing with the stone. Sometimes he was alone, the granite warm beneath his palms, the wall inside him crumbling, darkness overtaking him. But most of the time, it was Phil who waited for him, his touch turning hot and demanding. Kisses that made Clint’s mind reel, clenching his fingers into Phil’s bare skin. Phil on his knees, Clint’s hands buried in soft brown hair.

 

Just before sunrise on Friday, Clint woke with a gasp, sheets and blanket kicked off, arching up as he came. The phantom feel of Phil’s mouth still lingered as Clint blinked the sleep from his eyes. Deep breaths calmed him, and he stared at the ceiling. Riley padded into the room and woofed quietly, sitting on his haunches and staring up at Clint. Absently, Clint dropped his hand over the edge of the bed and rubbed the hound’s head. He might as well get up; he was messy and wide awake; a shower and some stretching sounded like a good way to get the day going.

 

“I think I’m going to take that short shift tonight,” he told Sam when the other man finally shuffled down the stairs. Coffee was ready, and Clint had started a frittata with some of the leftover broccoli casserole. “That cream is a miracle.”

 

“You can cook?” Sam poured a cup for himself and drank a sip. “That looks amazing.”

 

“Done a few shifts on the grill.” Clint flipped the saute pan over a plate; he cut it into wedges before he made them each a plate. “Not much I can’t do with eggs.”

 

“Be careful or Peggy will have you working the kitchen.” Sam sat down at the table and forked up a bite. “This is really good.”

 

“Least I can do considering you’re giving me free room and board.” Clint gathered the dirty dishes he’d used, piling them neatly by the sink. “Besides, you need a day off now and then.’

 

“I certainly won’t complain,” Sam agreed, his eggs steadily disappearing into his mouth. “Having someone to help out around here is nice for a change.”

 

“And that’s my opening to ask why a good catch like you is still single.” Clint sat down on the opposite end of the wooden table to eat his own food. “A house, a job, and a great dog? Why hasn’t some lucky someone snatched you up?”

 

“Haven’t found the right girl.” Sam shrugged. “Thought maybe I had for awhile, but that didn’t work out. So I’m just being happy with what I have and making a good life.”

 

“That’s usually when it happens, you know. When you stop looking,” Clint said.

 

“You’re not the first to say that. Better hurry though; I’m not getting any younger,” Sam replied with a chuckle.

 

While Clint was doing the dishes, he saw Logan’s truck pull around the house to the back door. The mechanic got out and tugged off the heavy green tarp covering something in the bed. Beneath was a motorcycle, an old Honda Rebel, its gas tank and back fin painted a metallic purple. Using a board as a ramp, Logan wheeled it off the truck and popped the kickstand to keep it upright.

 

“Morning,” Logan said as Clint and Sam came out on the porch. Without warning, he made an underhand toss towards Clint who caught the set of keys easily. “She’s not pretty, but she’ll get you where you need to go. Having some trouble with the clutch; if you can figure out why it’s catching on occasion, I’ll be obliged.”

 

“You’re loaning me a bike?” Clint asked, surprised. He hadn’t expected this.

 

“Well, you don’t seem to take to warnings very well, so at least now I know you can outrun them.” Logan slid the board back into the truck bed. “Going to be another week before I get the right parts for your car; this way no one has to haul your sorry ass around.”

 

Beneath the half-glow, half-grin, Logan actually looked like he cared in his own gruff way. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” Clint walked over to the bike. “She might be old, but she’s a work horse; I’ll keep her in the style she’s accustomed to, I promise.”

 

That earned him a chuckle. “Just keep her tank full and her oil topped off. She’ll get you there.”

 

“Clint made breakfast,” Sam said. “Want to come in and have some?”

 

“And he cooks too?” Logan mocked. “Wouldn’t turn down a cup of joe, if you have it.”

 

They spent a half hour talking about cars and hunting once Logan discovered that Clint used a bow. Then Clint excused himself to get ready for work, anxious to test the bike’s ride. Even the short ride to the pub was enough to remind him how much he loved the wind in his hair; he parked her by the stairs and patted the seat before he left her. For the next four hours, he poured drinks, taking breaks when he needed to sit down and keeping up with the moderate flow of guests. It felt good to be doing something again, and he didn’t have to worry about people’s reactions. Everyone treated him like some sort of hero; Sif called his fading black eye a badge of honor.

 

“Hey, Professor X!” Darcy called as a man in a wheelchair entered via the back hall. “I got my homework done early this time.”

 

With shaggy brown hair that fell over his forehead, the man looked far too young to be a professor, but then people thought Clint was still in his twenties and he was approaching 35 far too quickly. “Well, then, this is a red letter day,” he replied with a lovely British accent. “There’s a first time for everything.”

 

He rolled across the floor to a table; Darcy moved a chair out of his way. “If it wasn’t true, I’d say that hurt. Good thing I’m brilliant.”

 

At that, the professor laughed and lines crinkled around his eyes. “Indeed you are,” he admitted. “I’m expecting someone else, so bring two cups for the tea, please.”

 

“Okie dokie.” Darcy started towards the bar. “Hey, you haven’t met Clint yet, have you? Clint, come over here and meet Professor X.”

 

Drying his hands on a rag, Clint made his way out from behind the bar, aware of the man’s blue eyes surveying him from head to toe. Holding out his hand, he introduced himself. “Clint Barton. Nice to meet you.”

 

Their hands touched; Clint’s vision shifted like a camera gone slightly out-of-focus and turned on its side. Gone was the professor in the tweed jacket and jeans; in his place was a man in rich robes of brown, golden embroidered symbols along a green stole. Clint turned his head and saw Darcy, tips of pointy ears peeking out of her brown curls, clad in leather pants and a quilted vest. Sif wore armor, glinting in the lights. Behind the counter, Bucky’s face was marked by slashes of blue paint, his silver arm covered in the same tattooed patterns as his bare chest.

 

The professor’s hand withdrew and the world righted itself; Clint blinked a few times to get his orientation back, almost missing the man’s reply. “Nice to meet you indeed. I’m Charles Xavier, professor of mythology and folklore at the university.”

 

“Folklore.” Clint tried not to sound as discombobulated as he felt. “That’s an interesting subject.”

 

“Especially around here,” Xavier agreed. “I’ve been studying the legends of the Appalachian Mountains for years; they’re a fascinating mix of celtic, irish, and English. In some ways, the stories here are closer to the medieval tales than modern interpretations.”

 

“Really?” Unsure how to respond, Clint squirmed under the intense gaze of blue eyes.  

 

“Clint’s the guy who got Brock thrown in jail,” Darcy interrupted, much to Clint’s gratitude. “Kate’s knight in shining armor.”

 

“Ah, Phil told me about that incident. I hope you’re recovering well from your injuries?” Xavier politely inquired.

 

“I’m doing alright,” Clint replied.

 

Before Xavier could answer, the front door opened and a tall, lean man entered in a bespoke suit that fitted perfectly his athletic frame. Everyone in the bar instantly took notice, his presence commanding attention. The way he walked, so confident and sure of himself, matched with the smell of money that hung around him, left Clint’s tongue tied into knots. Stepping out of the way, Clint watched the man take the seat opposite Xavier, a half-smile on his face.

 

“Charles,” he said, inclining his head. Then he looked up at Clint. “And Mr. Barton. I’m glad to have the chance to apologize in person. I feel a sense of responsibility for my employees; rest assured that Mr. Rumlow will be prosecuted for his attack on you and I’m sorry you had such a rough introduction to our little town.” He offered his hand and Clint didn’t see any way not to take it. “I’m Eric Lensherr, CEO of Magneto Mining.”

 

Clint steeled himself for a reaction, but all he saw was Lensherr’s aura, shot full of silver that danced like electrical charges around the man’s skin. “Can’t judge a place on the actions of one man,” Clint said. “The people here have been very kind to me for the most part.”

 

“Excellent. I’m glad to hear it.” Lensherr turned his eyes back to Xavier. “Now, Charles, what is it that you want to talk about that demands such a quick meeting?”

 

Clearly dismissed, Clint retreated to the relative safety of the bar. His mind churned, uneasy and disrupted by the strangeness of Xavier’s touch and the knowledge that Rumlow’s mysterious master was sitting just across the room. The hackles on the back of his neck were raised, and he was sure they were talking about him. Men with auras as deep and complex as Phil’s, whose very presence created tension through the pub. Darcy’s friendliness evaporated with Lensherr showed up; Bucky was glowering, shooting angry looks at the table. Peggy appeared to serve them herself, efficiently taking their order without extra chatter.  Clint pulled them each a pint, sitting them on Peggy’s tray, avoiding looking their direction.

 

When he had a moment, he searched for Magneto Mining on his phone. Story after story came up about fracking and the company at the forefront of the new techniques. A feature in Forbes on the “charismatic” CEO and his green initiatives. A piece in the New York Times about Lensherr’s connections to the President and multiple congress members and senators. Even a cover of Vanity Fair with an accompanying article about Lensherr being out-of-the-closet sexually. Then there were the newspapers filled with exposes about the environmental damage the company was causing, everything from toxic runoff to water trucks destroying the roads. And right next to those were the pictures of Lensherr’s philanthropic fundraising for Children’s Hospital.

 

Before he started a search for Charles Xavier, Clint looked up and saw Phil coming into the pub. He hadn’t seen Phil since Sunday; he’d been driving into Knoxville, subbing for a friend’s Tennessee history course. Now, Phil looked like something out of Clint’s dreams; slim black t-shirt under a dark canvas jacket and a pair of often washed jeans that hugged his body. He spared a half-smile and a glance for Clint before he zeroed in on the two men and strode towards the table. The room suddenly seemed too small, like a packed elevator stopped between floors.

 

“Charles.” Phil stood and made no move to sit down. “I did realize you were heading my way.”

 

“I can’t resist Peggy’s bubble and squeak.” Charles motioned to the chair Darcy had pulled away. “Join us?”

 

“Thanks, but I don’t want to intrude upon your tete-a-tete.” Phil nodded to the other man. “Eric. I thought you were in Atlanta.”

 

“The negotiations ended early and very successfully, I might add.” Lensherr sat straight, his fingers tapping on the table. “I thought to have a quiet weekend at home, but that doesn’t seem to be in the cards.”

 

“You bailed out Rumlow.” Phil’s voice grew harsh; Clint started at that, unaware of the change in his attacker’s status.

 

“Brock is headed for the mines in Bolivia; we’re having some trouble with the Cambia Nation. He’s good at handling things like that.” Eric drained his pint. “Probably take a long while.”

 

Phil gave a curt nod. “He’s out of control. Rein him in before someone else does.”

 

“Is that a warning?” Lensherr’s question was cold, practically chilling the room; Clint tensed along with everyone else, holding his breath without thinking. “Because I thought we had an understanding.”

 

“I think what Phil is saying is that Rumlow’s a liability,” Charles broke in. “You already know that, Eric.”

 

Lensherr glowered at Phil for another moment then sighed, turning his eyes to Xavier. “Ever the peacemaker, Charles. But, yes, you’re correct; if there’s anything worse than thorn-in-my-side old friends, it’s employees who don’t do as they’re told. Now, I must be on my way; there’s paperwork waiting and a bottle of McClaren’s. You’re welcome to join me if you want.”

 

“I’ve got plans for the evening,” Phil said. “I’ll have to take a raincheck.”

 

“Tell me you have a date,” Charles joked. “And not with Netflix and Chinese takeout.”

 

“Maybe,” Phil replied. “I have to ask first.”   With that, he walked over to the bar, smiling at Clint. “So, what are you doing tonight?”

 

“I was thinking Netflix and Chinese,” Clint answered, a warm little spark igniting in his chest. “Kind of tired of casseroles.”

 

“I’ll drop by around seven? Any requests for the order?” Phil asked. It was the easiest date Clint had ever arranged.

 

“Anything spicy with noodles. I’m easy,” he said, winking. “I’ve got the beer.”

 

“See you then.” Phil left without a backwards glance at Lensherr and Xavier.

 

“Well.” Lensherr stood. “Charles? I’ve never known you to turn down a 25-year-old scotch.”

 

“You know my answer, Eric.” Charles looked up. “When you change your mind, come find me.”

 

“Same old argument, Charles. One of these days I’ll quit asking.” Lensherr exited the pub, and the room seemed to heave a collective sigh.  

 

Laying enough cash on the table to cover the bill, Xavier rolled over to Clint. “You probably feel like you’ve walked into the middle of the story,” he said, those blue eyes piercing right through Clint. “And in some ways, you have. But something tells me you’ve got a part to play. Be careful; Brock’s not the only danger out there.”

 

With those ominous words, the professor left Clint standing with a rag in his hand.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep saying "the university" because there's not a university that close to Pittman Center. The University of Tennessee is in Knoxville, a good hour drive away (and that's in light traffic which is a mythical creature around Gatlinburg). So I'm fudging things a bit. 
> 
> The Blue Moose, however, is a real burger place in Sevierville. It's delightfully yummy. If you're in the area, check it out. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date, a dream, some music, and a little voyeurism makes for one interesting weekend for Clint Barton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some good old fashioned voyeurism at the end of this chapter, JIC it bothers you. :)

“You stay; it’s your house,” Clint argued as Sam grabbed his keys and snatched up a six pack of Sweetwater 420. “We’ll just run over to Phil’s.”

 

“Phil doesn’t have wifi or cable; hell, he’s barely got electricity in that place.” Sam picked up the plate that held the last of the apple pie. “Besides, Steve has expanded cable with all the games, all the time. Dude’s TV takes up a whole wall; he says that so Peggy can watch British football, but I think it’s for his Yankees games.”

 

“It’s just chinese and a movie.” Clint wasn’t really sure what tonight wal; Phil might have been trying to get out of Lensherr’s invitation.

 

“Right. And you showered and put on those tight jeans and black shirt for no reason.” Sam looked Clint over. “It’s a date and you know it.”

 

“Fine.” Clint gave up; he wasn’t going to win this one. “But I’ll get started on the windows tomorrow before work; shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

 

“Hey, man, whenever, don’t rush.” Hand on the doorknob, Sam paused. “I know you’ll get things done; it’s in your nature. Just like I know you’ll treat Phil as he deserves.”

 

“Oh, well, thanks, I think.” Not for the first time, Clint wondered if Sam didn’t have a touch  of the sight; the man knew things with such surety. “I don’t promise to be good though.”

 

“Then you and Phil will get along just fine,” Sam shot back as he left.

 

Honestly, Clint wondered why he had agreed to the date with Phil. What he really should be doing was working every available hour until he could buy a used car and then get the hell out of here. He came too close to losing it already; sticking around and engaging with people only made it more likely it would happen again. Rumlow might be out of the picture -- and Clint wasn’t sure he believed that -- but there were plenty of other warnings to be worried about. The nightly chase left him ragged and on edge, and the sexual tension of dream Phil and real Phil was damn frustrating. Leaving should be his first priority.

 

And yet, here he was, planning on spending a few hours with the very man who had already left his mark on Clint. Playing with fire, that’s what Clint was doing and part of him was enjoying dancing close to danger. The part that scared him the most wanted to throw caution to the wind and drag Phil out into the woods for some down and dirty sex. It also wanted to hunt down Brock Rumlow and beat the shit out of him.

 

The knock of the door stopped that train of thought; Phil stood on the porch, a white bag filled with cartons of food. He was wearing the same thing he had on earlier, and he was even more sexy standing in the twilight, a crooked smile on his face.

 

“Wasn’t sure how hungry you’d be, so I brought a lot,” Phil said as he entered the living room. He sat the bag on the dining room table just past the half walls that separated the areas. “There’s hot and sour spicy soup, midnight dan dan, mapo dofu, chili beef lo mein, and japanese pan noodles plus chicken fried rice.”

 

“Are those all for me?” Clint picked up the first white box, opened and sniffed. The aroma made his mouth water. “Wow, that smells great. I’ll get plates and beer. You have a preference on what we watch?”

 

“Actually, I still haven’t seen the second season of Sherlock yet,” Phil said as Clint gathered what he needed in the kitchen and returned.

 

“The BBC one? That sounds good.” Clint pretty much watched anything except super sappy romance movies. “I’ll see if it’s on Netflix.”

 

He cued up the first episode then piled high the different choices, dousing it with soy sauce. Balancing the soup, beer, and plate, Clint settled on one end of the overstuffed floral couch; he sat the bottle on a coaster and the food on the coffee table. Following his lead, Phil took the other end, pausing to kick off his shoes. 

 

“So you’re a Cumberbatch fan?” Clint asked between bites.

 

“Actor’s decent, but I’ve been enamoured with Holmes since I was a kid. When a new version comes out, I give it a try. This one’s pretty smart. But my favorite is the Russian one with Igor Petrenko. Excellent adaptation.”

 

“What did you think of the Downey’s turn?” Clint asked. “I kinda liked those.”

 

“A little too frenetic on the pacing for me, but the acting was good,” Phil replied.

 

Clint started the movie; they spent more time talking than they did watching, making their way from the topic of Sherlock Holmes to Ken Burns documentaries to Game of Thrones. Conversation flowed easily as they ate and Clint had only a momentary flash of embarrassment when the Woman appeared naked in front of Sherlock. When the first episode was done, Clint broke out the strawberry rhubarb pie, heating it up in the microwave before they started the second one. Being with Phil was surprisingly relaxing even counting the scenes from his dreams that popped into his head -- distracting as hell, but relaxing.  He couldn’t keep up with the plot because he sat down closer to the middle and all he could think about was the cologne Phil was wearing, something earthy and cool that reminded him of a night in the forest. Plus, the noises from as he ate his slice of pie, a little hum of contentment in the back of his throat, made Clint wonder if that’s what Phil sounded like after an orgasm. Their socked feet bumped when Clint shifted forward to put his empty plate on the coffee table; the inches between their legs weren’t enough to stop him from sensing the warmth of Phil’s body. It was all so high school, Clint thought, those awkward first dates when the brush of a hand was enough to leave him aching for more. He hadn’t felt like this in years; usually, he picked someone up in a bar, and they had a good time, but both of them knew what they were doing so there was no mystery, no build up. A one time thing and Clint moved on.

 

Then he began to worry about Phil having the wrong idea; Clint had never expressly said he’d be leaving, assuming that his plan was obvious. Maybe Phil saw something longer term for the two of them. Maybe he didn’t want to get involved with a roustabout like Clint. It wasn’t as if Clint had a lot to offer; what he owned fit in a couple of boxes in the back of his car. There were no life savings or money markets, not even a full-time job.

 

“Thinking some deep thoughts over there?’ Phil interrupted Clint’s inner spiral of doubt. “I’d say a penny for them, but with inflation it’s more like a dollar nowadays.”

 

“It’s just … you know I’m not looking to settle down somewhere, right?” Clint had to ask the question; it wasn’t fair to lead Phil on. Especially with Clint’s ability to walk into messes like the dustup with Rumlow.

 

Phil sat his beer down and turned Clint’s way, face gone serious. “Yes, I know what I’m getting into. I’m more concerned that you understand; I’m not exactly … normal.”

 

“Right. You’re an apostate.” Clint caught the slight widening of Phil’s eyes. “I wasn’t completely out of it during that conversation. Lensherr is Rumlow’s master, and you had a falling out with them.”

 

“Something like that.” Phil  hesitated before he continued. “Eric and I have a fundamental difference in opinion about how to solve a common problem. I agreed to let it go when it was clear I was in the minority.”

 

“Keep the peace. That discussion at the pub didn’t look very peaceful.” Clint had wondered about the dynamics; Phil had seemed to be on equal footing with Lensherr and Xavier.

 

“Rumlow works for him; if he can’t keep his followers in line then someone has to.” Phil’s voice grew deeper, laced with a hint of anger. “There’s a time and place for violence but Brock needs to be reined in.”

 

“Hey, I agree on that point.” Clint held up his hands in mock surrender; he decided to change the subject and not rehash the attack. “So, what’s AC stand for?”

 

That took Phil aback for a second before he remembered that Darcy’s greeting. “Oh, gods. A student of mine gave me that and it stuck. Skye never calls anyone by their given name; she calls Peggy ‘British’ and Steve ‘Star Spangled Man.’ When she was in my history of religion course, she started with various titles besides Professor. Marquis Coulson. Duke Coulson. The Right Reverend Coulson. It ended with Archbishop Coulson and got shortened to AC. Even though Skye moved to Knoxville to work for Stark Industries, her friends still use it.”

 

“Archbishop, huh? I guess you’re breaking vows just going on a date,” Clint joked.

 

“There are many religions where the priests aren’t celibate,” Phil replied, his own eyes flicking down to Clint’s lips. “In fact, some actually celebrate sexuality as a natural expression of human life, see it as a holy rite.”

 

“Not sure I’ve run into any of those types of ministers.” Talking about sex certainly wasn’t helping the way Clint’s cock was starting to make its presence known. “I think I’d remember that.”

 

“You just haven’t met the right ones.” Phil leaned forward, sliding his hand along the back of the couch across the afghan of colorful squares. “Sex can be a sacred experience.”

 

Clint closed the distance, bringing his lips to Phil’s for a series of light kisses along the outer edges. Pulling back, he raised his hand, hesitated, the curled his fingers around Phil’s neck and into his hair. The jolt ran up his arm at the touch, heat flooding from Phil to him. A tug and Clint was kissing Phil again. No need to rush, Clint got to know the contours of Phil’s mouth, the way he tilted his head and, yes, how he hummed in pleasure. Lost in the moment, Clint couldn’t remember the last time he’d simply sat and kissed someone without a rush to get them in bed. How long they stayed that way, Clint didn’t know; the episode ended and a new one began without notice. They’d stop for a few breaths, caressing with fingertips, resting their foreheads together, before another starting anew.

 

From his favorite place, curled up on his blanket near the fireplace, Riley lifted his head and sniffed the air; he half-woofed, more breath than sound, and lumbered to his feet, long gangly legs balancing his lean body. Walking to the front window, he looked out, eyes fixed on something in the darkness, and growled low in his throat.

 

Dreams fresh in his mind, Clint called, “See something, Riley?”

 

Hackles raised, Riley growled louder, a short sharp bark interrupting the sound. Phil tensed as Clint pushed away and rose up; he laid a hand on Clint’s forearm. “Probably a deer. They come right up to the house around here.”

 

“Maybe a bear? Sif was talking about one that visits her porch sometimes.” Clint turned off the overhead light, leaving the room lit only by the end table lamp. Slowly, the landscape became illuminated with moonlight as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

 

“Sif and her pet bear.” Phil moved to stand beside Clint as Riley yipped again. “It’s likely to be absolutely nothing.”

 

A chill seeped under the door, creeping along the floor; the hound’s tail dropped as he whined and backed into Clint’s legs, cowering away from the cold. In the space between house and forest, shadows crept out of the trees, crawling along the grass. They rose and separated into distinct shapes, spreading into a semi-circle.

 

“Clint,” Phil tugged him back from the window. “I need to …”

 

Twin lights flashed, sweeping across the yard, illuminating the bushes and shrubs that cast the long shadows. Sam’s car rounded the curve in the driveway and made its way to the back of the house. Clint released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Changing quickly, Riley began dancing about, woofing with joy at the return of his owner.

 

“Go on, boy,” Clint told the dog. “We’re fine; go slobber all over Sam.”

 

With a chuckle, Phil, watching the dog slide on the wood floor in his haste, put a hand on the small of Clint’s back. “Actually, I need to head out. I’ve got to get up early in the morning to drive to the Mountain Farm Heritage Festival; I’ve giving lectures about prohibition and moonshine in the mountains.”

 

“Oh, right.” Clint was never good at this part, the ending. “Yeah, I’m working the dinner shift tomorrow so, um, I probably won’t see you.” That was awkward; Clint immediately wanted to take the words back. “I mean, assuming you want to see me again.”

 

“We didn’t actually watch the ending of the second movie.” Phil leaned in. “Besides, I enjoyed myself.” He brushed a kiss on the corner of Clint’s mouth. “I definitely want to see you again.”

 

“Good. Right. Okay.” The key turned in the lock on the back door; Clint gave Phil a kiss full of promise, happy with the answer. “More is good.”

 

“Hey, sorry, man,” Sam said as he flipped on the light in the dining room and saw them. “I’ll head upstairs and get out of your way.”

 

“Phil’s just leaving,” Clint told him, taking a step back. “I’ll clean up.”

 

Sam glanced over at the table. “You drove to China Town in Sevierville?” He gave a low whistle. “Somebody wanted to impress their date.”

 

“It worked.” Clint said as Phil blushed.

 

Sam took Riley out as Clint walked Phil to his truck, a 1984 Chevy Blazer 4x4, and Clint caught the look the two men exchanged as Riley balked, stopping right by the stairs to do his business and tug Sam back to the house. One more goodbye kiss, and Phil climbed in; he started the engine and turned on the lights, waiting until Clint was back inside before he drove off.

 

“So …” Sam wiggled his eyebrows, drawing the word out. “The date went well.”

 

“Yes, it did.” Clint closed the carton tops and carried the leftovers to the fridge. “How was the game?”

 

“Bucky and Peggy were rooting for opposite teams, if that tells you anything.” Sam poured water into the coffee pot and filled up the maker, setting the timer for the morning brew. “Worth listening to them bicker to get Bucky’s hot wings. I brought some home.”

 

They chatted as they cleaned, turning off the television then the lights before heading upstairs. As Clint prepared for bed, he was sure he was going to dream about Phil; the taste of him was still on his lips.

 

_Flames flared high, logs tumbling and sending a shower of sparks into the night sky. More bonfires dotted the hillside as shadowy figures whirled and turned. Music floated on the air, a woman’s voice calling them all to the dance, a bow skipping fast across the strings of a fiddle in a frenzied run. Masked faces spun past him, disappearing as quickly as they appeared in a waltz where partners shifted and changed._

 

_“Clint.” She was so young, her dark blonde hair twined in intricate braids blue/grey eyes bright. “Look at you.” Her fingers stroked along his cheek, tracing the contours of his face._

 

_“Mom?” His memories were hazy; she’d been tired and drained, bleached of life by her husband’s anger._

 

_“Dance with me. Just this once.” She offered her hand then pulled him into the crowd. Hands raised, she twirled in time with the drums, braids flying around her. Clint couldn’t resist the pull of the song, caught up in the colorful auras that reached out to circle him, his mother’s burgundy mixing with his own. Bodies crowded in, some in dark robes, others in jeans and t-shirts, still more in leather pants and vests. Calico skirts swished alongside velvet ones, leather boots stepped in the same spots as flip flops. The night became a blur of faces and movement, the only constant the steady beat that mirrored his heart pounding in his chest. All thought fled, the words and the notes slipping into his head and vibrating in his chest._

 

[ _“You can look at yourself, you can look at each other or you can look in the face of your god.”_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhHsunkNhN4)

 

_Bare skin gleamed in the firelight, sweaty and slick, hands sliding over muscles. Clint lost track of her, forgot who he was. Voices whispered in his ear, heated breaths ruffled his hair. A hand closed around his wrist and Brock yanked Clint off balance, sending him sprawling, landing on Brock’s chest. Trapped by strong arms, Clint couldn’t move._

 

_“Let go. You know you want to,” Brock told him._

 

_The song shifted mid bar, a slowing tempo, a male voice calling out. Clint stumbled backwards, Brock disappearing into the sea of bodies._

 

[ _“_ ](http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xkb664_the-old-ways-loreena-mckennitt_creation) [ _A vision came o'er me of thundering hooves and beating wings in clouds above.”_ ](http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xkb664_the-old-ways-loreena-mckennitt_creation)

 

_Silver hair flashed as the bow drew across the strings, cerulean blue eyes knowing and wise. Then the fiddler was gone too, and the sound of horses grew louder, the baying of hounds overriding the music. The urge to flee nearly sent him running, but he dug in, toes gripping the cool loam and faced the coming wave. The ground shook, reverberations of hoofbeats rattling his teeth; they melted out of the darkness, dogs first, parting like a wave around him, so close their fur brushed against his bare legs. Dark steeds, sturdy beasts with braided manes and war barding, pounded past him, shadowy riders bent over their saddles, hell bent on their prey.The last slowed and turned to look at Clint, tawny owl eyes unblinking. Shivering, Clint stared back and saw the slight tilt of the feathery head, the inclined antlers then he too was gone, back to the hunt._

 

_“Clint,” Phil whispered in his ear, voice thready with need. “Clint.”_

 

_Bracing his back against the stone, Clint lifted a knee and wrapped his leg around Phil’s waist so he could slide inside in one strong push, thrusting up until Clint groaned with pleasure. A steady rhythm and Clint was gasping for air, waves rippled through his whole body as drops of sweat ran down his face. He moaned Phil’s name as he neared the edge, watching the lines of purple curl along his arms and down his chest._

 

_“Oh, God, Phil.”_

 

Clint jerked awake to an aching cock and a pounding heart, sucking in air to try and calm himself. The sheets were drenched and his legs felt weak as if he’d danced for hours. With a sigh, he slipped his brief down and stroked himself, biting his lips so he came quietly. His ass ached, his back burned in places and his arms tingled even after he finished. His phone told him it was 3:47 a.m.; staring at the ceiling, Clint wasn’t sure he’d ever get back to sleep.

* * *

“They’re good,” Clint said to Logan as the band, Tuatha Dea, took a break. “Not the same as the twins, but I like it.”

 

The pub was packed again, another Saturday night with music bringing in the customers. A number of women had asked for a Hawkeye; Peggy had stocked up on the ingredients and Clint was making a lot of the drinks. Both Sif and Peggy were helping at the bar so Clint was free to do his fanciest moves. A number of patrons had asked after Clint’s health; the story of his altercation with Rumlow was taking on mythic proportions. He tried to set the record straight but it was too late for truth; the idea of someone taking down the town bully was too good to resist.

 

“Local kids,” Logan told him. “Played their first gig here. Peggy’s like a fairy godmother or something.”

 

“I just happen to have good taste,” Peggy said, drawing a second pitcher of beer for Kate to deliver. None of them had taken so much as a moment to sit down, the steady flow of customers keeping them all hopping. “I think we’re going to need to call a cab for table four. They’ve had three rounds of Hawkeyes each.”

 

“I’ve got Jasper on speed dial,” Darcy answered. “Already told him when I called earlier to be ready. Hey, Clint, I need two more My Sharona’s for Bobby and Kitty.”

 

“Still in the newlywed stage, I see.” Peggy turned and took a bottle of Cherokee Red Ale. The couple had come in early for dinner and stayed for the show, sitting on the same side of the booth, his arm around her shoulders. “Two years and counting.”

 

“I heard they were thinking about starting a family,” Sif offered. “As if they weren’t around kids all day to start with.”

 

“They’re both teachers at the middle school,” Darcy filled in for Clint. “That’s how they met.”

 

“Romance in the staffroom.” Kate put her tray down on the end of the bar as Peggy left with hers. “Isn’t it sweet? Sort of like our own Clint and AC.”

 

“Are you dating Phil?” Sif asked. “How come I’m the last to know these things?”

 

“Phil saved Clint from Brock,” Darcy announced, taking the two drinks Clint slid her way. “They had a date last night.”

 

“Really, it’s not that …” Clint tried to protest but he got nowhere.

 

“Aw, that’s sweet!” The police chief’s wife, Jean, said, turning on her stool to join the conversation. “Oro, did you hear? Phil’s dating Clint, the new bartender.”

 

Closing his eyes, Clint sighed. Within minutes the news would be all around the pub and out into town. Not much he could do to stop it.

 

“Hey, pretty much everyone knew already.” Kate patted him on the back. “Now how about you make me a Long Island Tea, a Singapore Sling, and two Cosmos for table twelve.”

 

Later, after three calls for taxis, another set of music and also running out of purple WRD, Clint left around midnight, the band still playing and the place full. Peggy had insist he not work to closing his first night back and Clint was glad he’d let her have her way. His ribs were aching from all the reaching and bending he’d done; the cool air in his face on the ride home woke him up and helped ease his tiredness. By the time he came to a stop behind the house, he was thinking about heating up some of the wings in the fridge.

 

As he took of his helmet and looped it around the handlebar, Clint heard a woman’s laugh coming from the woods followed by a lower male voice. He paused, waiting, and another exchange came, closer now, more distinct.

 

“...the way. Remember, you got us lost in Atlanta that time,” the woman said.

 

“I know how to get to the stone. Been there lots of times. Still not sure, though,” he replied.

 

“I have enough faith for both of us. Now watch your feet or you’ll …”

 

The words trailed off as the couple passed by; Clint’s ears perked up at the mention of the stone. Before he thought it through completely, he was heading for the path, using the light of the half moon as his guide. His eyes adjusted as he negotiated his way to the main trail. A flash of yellow ahead, the hem of a dress fluttering was easy to follow; Clint could move silently when he needed to, his footfalls causing no sound. Melting into the shadows, he listened to the forest around him, the couple’s passing easy to track. Heading south, they made no attempt to hide, oblivious to Clint behind.

 

“Here it is. See the marking on the tree?” A light shone ahead; Clint stilled marking the spot in his mind.

 

“There’s no path,” the woman said.

 

“That’s the point. Just push through the bushes.”

 

Leaves rattled along with a few muttered curses as they left the trail. It didn’t take long for Clint to find the carved horizontal line and three vertical smaller ones carved into the trunk. A low hanging limb was an easy jump; he used his momentum to swing over the shrubby winterberry, landing lightly on the other side. Ten more minutes uphill and Clint came to a halt at a clearing. Bathed in the light of the half moon, the stone in the center seemed to absorb it all. Circling the edge, Clint positioned himself where the shadows were the deepest.

 

“Ready?” Bobby asked. Now that Clint could clearly see their faces, he recognized the young couple from the pub. Plunking down a back pack, Bobby began rummaging through it, pulling out a set of speakers and plugging an ipod in. [Drums began a syncopated rhythm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qG0cDEqpG_E) as they started to strip out of their clothes; Bobby lost his jacket then his shirt as Kitty took off her sweater and kicked her boots to the side.

 

“Let’s make a baby.” Kitty held out her arms and Bobby scooped her up, pressing her against the stone.

 

Clint got the message as Bobby began unbuttoning the front of his wife’s dress. Stepping back, he bumped into a body; an arm snaked around his waist, and a hand covered his mouth.

 

“Don’t move,” Phil whispered into his ear. “Look to your left.”

 

It took a moment before Clint could discern the figures, three in various locations around the clearing. Standing, watching, waiting.

 

“Stay close. They’ll think it’s me.” Phil took his hand away from Clint’s mouth, his fingers dragging along Clint’s lips. “If you leave now, they’ll know you were here.”

 

“Bobby and Kitty?” Distracted by Phil pressed up against him, Clint registered the couple’s auras pulsing in time to the music.

 

“They’ll be fine.” Phil’s breath tickled his ear; Clint couldn’t help but see the couple from the corner of his eye even as he kept a watch on the other observers. Her arms spread across the stone, bracing her upright, dress hanging open, eyes closed, head thrown back; his mouth traced her collarbone, big hand cupping her small breasts, rolling the nipple between his fingers.

 

Prickles of heat climbed Clint’s legs, a flush rushing to his cheeks. His body responded instantly as the music changed to a faster pace, ratcheting the tension higher; his cock hardened and his breath quickened. Behind him, Phil shifted, putting more space between them, but not moving his arm. The connection let their auras mingle, making them indistinguishable from each other, but it also meant that Clint felt the brush of Phil’s thighs and heard his sigh as Bobby dropped to his knees in front of his wife.

 

“First for the goddess Arianrhod. Bless this union,” Kitty gasped out as Bobby lifted one leg and hooked her knee over his shoulder. He buried his head in the dark curls, hand cupping the white skin on the curve of her ass. She groaned, sliding her fingers into his hair.

 

“Oh, fuck,” Clint mumbled as another wave of heat shot straight to his head; his ears burned and his cheeks grew warm. He shifted his balance, rubbing his erection along the seam of his jeans, growing more desperate for a release.

 

Like an ancient sacrifice, Kitty’s hair flared over the stone, her body centered between runes that began to glow, curving lines of old script and scrollwork. Power bloomed with her every sound, rolling across the clearing and sweeping over the figures waiting in the darkness. It crawled inside of Clint, filling every nook and cranny, raising his body temperature; his sight expanded until he could see the gradients of the others’ auras, their arousal evident in hunched shoulders and slight movements.

 

“Oh God, oh God.” Kitty’s voice grew louder, climbing an octave. “Ah!”

 

Clint swallowed, his throat dry as the aftereffect of her orgasm hit him; seemingly of its own accord, his hand covered Phil’s and slid it down to cup his aching cock. Rolling his hips, Clint brought them in contact with Phil’s, rubbing along his hard length. Energy jolted through Clint and he suddenly had the clearest vision of Phil in brown leathers, swinging up on a horse and offering a hand to Clint. Sea spray splattered them both, wet sand kicked up by the horse’s hooves as Phil opened Clint’s pants and began to stroke him with a demanding touch.

 

“Second for Cernunnos. Bless this union,” Bobby said as he stood up and kicked off his jeans.Catching his wife’s leg, he lifted it higher, wrapped it around his waist. As he surged up, thrusting inside of her, the runes began to change, morphing into new arrangements of lines and dots and curls, rewriting themselves into something new.

 

As this wave broke over him, Clint reeled, his protective wall shaking at its foundations as he came with a shuttered groan, spilling onto the ground in front of him. Spinning out of his head, he floated out of his body, looked below with new sight. He knew. He saw. One man’s secret reserve of hate. The other’s sin of pride. The woman’s well of self-doubt. Bobby’s insecurities. Kitty’s determination. Only the careful caress of Phil’s fingers grounded him, kept his other part from roaring out.

 

“Oh, oh, oh, oh,” Bobby chanted. His muscles clenched, the long line of his back sweaty; his movements became erratic just before he came. A spark jumped between the two as they finished, and Clint believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that a baby had just been conceived. He rocked on his heels, his head dropping back on Phil’s shoulder.

 

“Stay with me,” Phil murmured,gently tucking Clint back in and zipping him up. “Wait until the others are gone.”

 

It didn’t take long; melting back into the woods, the others watchers slipped away quietly. Phil kept his arm around Clint, anchoring him, until they could leave without being observed. Together, they walked in silence for a few minutes, time enough for Clint’s brain to come back online and run through the events that just happened.

 

“Phil.” Clint struggled to make sense of it all. “You didn’t …”

 

“First time is always the most intense,” Phil answered over his shoulder, keeping his voice low. “You learn to pace yourself and be prepared.”

 

“First time.” First time of what? Seeing a sex ritual and getting off on it? “I think we need to talk.”

 

“Agreed. Now would be a …”

 

In the distance, a hound bayed, the sound trailing off into the night. A shiver ran down Clint’s spine; too many dreams of running in these very woods assailed him.

 

“Probably just a dog, right?” he asked.

 

“Probably,” Phil agreed.

 

Another yowl followed by a second then a third, far off.

 

“Maybe not?” Clint glanced at the shadows around them.

 

“Either way we should get inside,” Phil replied, quickening his pace.

 

Four, maybe five howls, closer now, agitated and angry. Phil stopped, closed his eyes, and listened intently.

 

“You need to get to Sam’s. Wake him if you have to and tell him to be sure the wards are set. Don’t go outside no matter what you see,” Phil ordered.

 

“What about you?” Clint determined the direction in his head, calculating how long from here to Sam’s porch.

 

“I’m going to check on Bobby and Kitty, make sure they get to their car. Besides they’re not after me. Don’t worry; I know a few tricks to throw them off the scent. You can find your way?” Phil laid a hand on Clint’s arm.

 

“Be there in under 15.” Clint promised, lightly brushing his fingers over Phil’s. “Come to Sam’s when you’re done. We’ll be waiting.”

 

“I will,” Phil promised.

 

Cutting through the forest, Clint took the most direct route back, being sure to walk in the creek part of the way. All the time, the barking grew closer and closer until he felt the dogs nipping at his heels although nothing but shadow covered the ground. So busy looking behind him, Clint didn’t see the man blocking his path until a second too late; skidding to a halt, he tried to evade the man’s lunge but hands gripped him from behind and a needle jabbed into his neck, sinking in deep as something cold slipped into his veins.

 

“There’s someone who wants a word with you,” a voice said.

 

The world began to melt and then Clint went under.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wakes up and the wall falls. Violence ensues. Phil thinks Clint's sexy as hell.
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains non-consensual drug use (major character), attempted/thwarted rape of a minor character, violence, and blood. Plus sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains non-consensual drug use (major character), attempted/thwarted rape of a minor character, violence, and blood. Plus sex. Check the end notes if want to skip the aforementioned rape scene. Things are getting darker. 
> 
> Again, this is a cross between the feel of Penny Dreadful and True Blood. Fair warning.

“You should crush that more.”

 

“I know what I’m doing.”

 

“Seriously. If you let it boil, it’ll go off.”

 

“Jesus, John. I know how to make a potion.”

 

Someone coughed. “Annamarie.”

 

“That was once, for God’s sake. Once.”

 

Another cough. “Talia.”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Cain.”

 

“You suck at this. Let me do it.”

 

“Fine, I’ll wake up the guest.”

 

A hand smacked Clint’s cheek; head snapping back, his eyes flew open, and he came fully awake. He shivered, goosebumps rising on bare skin as he gazed around the room, trying to make sense of it all. His feet rested on a polished wooden floor; [before him was a vast expanse of windows,](http://www.cabinsforyou.com/mountain-cascades-lodge.htm) black with the night beyond, a smattering of lights twinkling down below. Leather sofas, a massive stone fireplace, a large gourmet kitchen with granite counter tops, a heavy iron chandelier .. the place looked like something from a luxury travel magazine, not a place Clint found himself naked and tied to a chair. Two men stood at the gas stove top, one stirring a pot with a wooden spoon, the other cleaning up bottles and bags. Two stories above, the roof came to a peak, laced with wooden beams and two drop down ceiling fans. A railing ran around the upstairs walkway, everything made of rough hewn logs.

 

A hand grabbed him by the hairs of his neck and yanked his head back. “Told you I’d be seeing you later,” Brock Rumlow said with a feral grin. “Time to pay the ferryman.”

 

“Fuck you,” Clint spat out. “You’re supposed to be in Columbia anyway.”

 

With ease, Brock kicked a leg over and straddled Clint, forcing Clint’s head back. “Is that what Erik said? The man’s such a good liar you never know what’s truth.”

 

“Hey, Brock, this is almost ready,” the voice that went with the name John said. He was a shorter, skinnier guy, long hair hanging across his face, obscuring his eyes. “I’ll keep it warm but we need to use it before it goes bad.”

 

“Don’t worry; he’s on his way,” Brock told the other man. “You know,” he continued, running his thumb over Clint’s lower lip. “It’s too bad we don’t have time to play. But I will enjoy watching the outcome of our evening’s little entertainment.”

 

For a second, Clint panicked as Brock crowded closer, his belt buckle at the level of Clint’s chin. Then Rumlow let his head drop and stepped away, his evil grin never waivering. “The boys are itching for some play time so maybe I’ll end things early and let them have what’s left of you. Make me a video for posterity.”

 

“People are going to miss me,” Clint warned, thinking of Phil showing up at Sam’s and finding him gone. “You’re out on bail; don’t make it worse than it already is.”

 

Brock and the big guy, a bodybuilder from the looks of his biceps and by default named Cain, laughed at Clint’s pronouncement. “He thinks we’re after him,” Cain said, snickering. “Who made him center of the universe?”

 

“It’s one thing to be the hero of the story, but you’re just bait,” Rumlow told Clint. “Sad way to end your life.”

 

“Daphne,” John tossed out, putting a lid on the pot.

 

“What?” Rumlow asked.

 

“Daphne from Scooby Doo. The one who always gets captured and has to be rescued. She doesn’t really do much else. Fred’s the leader, Velma’s the brains, Shaggy and Scooby are the comic relief, and Daphne’s the victim.” John shrugged. “Sucks to be Daphne.”

 

“You’re strange.” Rumlow walked over and smacked John on the back of the head. “Do you know that?”

 

“Been told a few times.” John rubbed at the sore spot. “Just cause I follow the Old Ways doesn’t mean I don’t like pop culture.”

 

They were after Phil. Struggling against his bonds, Clint tried to get free; he didn’t have any kind of plan, just an overriding need to do something. Whatever they’d given him in that needle was making his brain fuzzy, loosening his control. A steady pounding on the wall was vibrating his nerves, sending his heart rate rising.

 

Brock’s phone beeped; he checked the screen. “Coulson’s coming up the drive. Hurry up and get that in a mug. Cain, round up the others; we need a at least five grove members as witnesses.”

 

Rocking the chair back and forth, Clint flexed his arm muscles, trying to find some give in the nylon. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “I’m no fucking Daphne.”

 

“Aw, hurt your feelings, did we?” Brock said with a laugh. “Don’t worry, your prince is coming; too bad he won’t rescue you. Now don’t make me drug you to keep you in line; I really want to hear you scream.”

 

Headlights flashed across the wall and a car door closed outside. Clint jerked harder, rocking the chair as he shouted. “PHIL! GET OUT OF HERE.”

 

A fist slammed into his chin; blood spilled from his split lip and he bit his tongue. “Shut the fuck up,” Cain said.  “Or we’ll see how well you can breath with my knife in your throat.”

 

“Phil,” Brock said, opening the door. “Come in and join the party. I’m afraid we got started  without you but your boy is so accommodating.”

 

Embarrassment mixed with the heat of anger flamed Clint’s cheeks at the thought of being bait for Phil. Spitting blood onto the floor, Clint made his decision; there was no way he was going to let Phil be harmed. “Fuck you, Rumlow,” he said. “I’m going to kick your ass.”

 

“What the hell is this?” Phil demanded as he took in Clint’s condition. “Where’s Erik?”

 

“Erik’s busy at the moment; he gave me instructions. Barton here violated a ritual early this evening and you know the rules.” Rumlow leaned back against the kitchen island, entirely too pleased with himself. “Since you’re senior, it falls to you to enact the punishment.”

 

“I am no longer the magistrate,” Phil objected. “And if I were I’d remind you that our order treats uninitiated humanely.”

 

“He’s a squirmly little devil,” Rumlow said with an absent shrug, dismissing Clint all together. “Technically, you’re Erik’s proxy, if I remember all those legal terms. So the ball’s in your court.”

 

As far as Clint could tell, Brock was closing a neat little trap around Phil. Even if he only understood half of what they were talking about, Clint could see that Phil didn’t want to be the judge, especially since he knew Clint was guilty of the indiscretion, but he didn’t have a choice. Groves and magistrates aside, once Phil agreed, Rumlow thought he had them both.

 

Clint didn’t want to do it. The last time the wall had fallen … well, he didn’t really remember much of it but he’d read the police report in the newspaper.  If he had another option, he’d take it, but two more guys came down the stairs to join Brock, John, and Cain.

 

“Look,” he said, jerking against his bonds and moving the chair. “I don’t give a shit what power play’s going on it, but there’s no way in hell I’m sitting still for this. You’re already out on bail for assault, asshole.”

 

“Like Erik doesn’t have the police in his pocket?” Cain sneered, clamping big hands on the back of Clint’s chair. “Charges don’t mean shit to us.”

 

“Fuck you!” Clint cursed, tossing his head back and butting Cain in the solar plexus, making him double over in pain.

 

“You little cunt!” Cain’s fist plowed into Clint’s already abused face. “Who do you think you are? I’m going to enjoy …”

 

“That’s enough.” Phil held out his hand; circling his ring finger was a band of polished silver, shining in the chandelier’s light. “Control yourself or I will.”

 

“Stand down,” Rumlow ordered. “Go get some of Mike’s sure thing pills.”

 

“Your orders, right? You know how Mike gets,” Cain said as he grudgingly stepped away.

 

“Jesus, you’re such a pussy. Yes, that’s an order.” Rumlow rolled his eyes as Cain headed for the stairs. “John, bring the mug before tempers rise anymore. Marvin, Ned, hold him.”

 

He fought the two men as they tried to hold him, sliding his weight to tip the chair backwards then slamming the front legs down onto a foot. The move earned a cursed shout from the victim, but all too soon, Clint arm was turned so his palm faced up. Drawing a blackhawk and flipping open the blade, Rumlow drew the sharp edge along Clint’s skin between his wrist and elbow. Bright red swelled up and drops rolled as Rumlow tipped Clint’s arm. Clint’s blood, mixing with the dark potion inside the pottery mug.

 

As the hands let go, Clint lashed out with all his energy, throwing himself forward and ploughing into Rumlow. They went down in a tangle of limbs and chair; Clint sank his teeth into Rumlow’s arm, biting hard enough to make him drop the knife. A boot kicked Clint in the stomach, but he didn’t let go until his chair was yanked back up on its legs.

 

“God damn it.” Blood oozed through Rumlow’s fingers where he held his arm. “You are a pain in my ass, Barton.”

 

“I’m not going down easy,” Clint ground out.

 

”You force my hand,” Rumlow said, holding out his hand as Cain came down the stairs. “This is not how I want this to play out, but you leave me no choice.”

 

“No.” Clint pushed back, shaking his head. “I don’t react well to drugs.”

 

“You should have thought of that before.” Rumlow took two of the white pills and nodded to the other men. They grabbed Clint, forced his head back and opened his mouth. “These are GBH,” Rumlow told Phil. “He’ll be fine.”

 

“He better be,” Phil said. “Let’s do this before things escalate.”

 

“Phil, I’m sorry” Clint let his fear show in his eyes. He dry swallowed the drugs, committed to whatever happened next. Sliding down his throat, they hit his stomach and started to dissolve. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and wished he believed prayer would change anything.

 

“I knew you were going to be logical about this,” Rumlow said, giving John the go ahead to hand Phil the mug. “Shall we get started?”

 

When Clint tried marijuana, he’d woken up the next morning to find he’d gotten into a fight, crashed his friend’s car, sent four people to the hospital, and punched a police officer. He spent years learning to keep his mental walls up only to have them fall quickly after a joint. After that, he avoided illegal drugs only to discover that pain medicines like oxycodone and morphine had the same results. Anything that altered his brain chemistry could knock down his mental defenses.

 

“Clint, I need you to look at me,” Phil said. Clint did; Phil was crouched down in front of him; at some point he’d taken off his jacket and shirt, all smooth skin and muscles, the[ tattooed bracers](http://static1.squarespace.com/static/52a39060e4b0b9264e019ad5/t/546d5c50e4b0546af56218b8/1416453202124/) on each arms completely revealed along with a [low hanging torque](http://celtictattooist.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Celtic%20Chest%20Tattoos%20For%20Men%2005.jpg) that covered Phil’s chest.

 

“Nice ink,” was the first thing Clint thought to say.

 

Phil’s lips quirked up then he held up the mug. “This mixture will allow me to make a connection with you, feel what you’re feeling. I won’t be able to read your thoughts, just share emotions. I’ll ask a few questions; just answer honestly.”

 

“They’re not going to let us go,” Clint replied. “They’re going to kill us both.”

 

“They’re going to try,” Phil agreed. Digging into his pocket, he laid a set of car keys on the end table. “If you get a chance, get the hell out of here. Take the truck and just keep driving. Don’t stop until you get out of the mountains.”

 

He couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, only slightly off-kilter. “Crazed, nude man in stolen truck; news at eleven.” Clamping down on the hysteria that hovered, Clint got serious. “Wasn’t exactly how I wanted you to see me naked for the first time.”

 

“Can’t say it would be my choice either,” Phil said, his eyes dipping down lower. ”But I’m damn impressed.”

 

“Okay,” Rumlow interrupted. “Tick Tock. This potion won’t last much longer.”

 

“No wonder you can’t keep a woman, Brock,” John said. “Way to step on the moment.”

 

Phil stood up and took the mug. Dipping his pinkie in, he sniffed the brew then touched his fingertip to his lips “Who made this?” he asked. “Can’t be Brock’s work; it’s too good.”

 

“Hey,” Rumlow protested.

 

“I made it,” John offered. “It’s all in how long it simmers; start on high heat then turn it down for the rest of the time.”

 

“Have you been recommended for ovate training? Takes a deft hand to make a potion this complex.” Phil sipped at the brew then took a longer drink.

 

“You think I could handle it? I hear most people wash out.” John’s eyes glowed with interest.

 

“Oh for God’s sake.” Cain smacked John on the back of his head. “Could you be more of a nerd?”

 

“And what’s wrong with that?” John countered.

 

Clint lost the thread of the conversation as a wave of drowsiness swept over him; he didn’t fight as the wall trembled and began to melt. Flexing his fingers, he felt the skin pull away from his muscles, retreating to make room for the rest of him. It flowed out, filling the space, not anger or darkness but a liquid warmth; a calm settled over him. Pushed back into his head, Clint handed over control.

 

“Are you ready?” Rumlow asked. “We don’t have all night.”

 

2:47 a.m. They’d left Clint’s watch on his wrist. Balling his fists, he tested his new strength, ropes giving with ease, but he stopped short of breaking them. A questing touch of another mind -- worry, planning, constant motion -- and Clint opened the floodgates, finding the harmony of his blood at work in Phil.

 

With a gasp, Phil’s head jerked up; Clint could see the movement without even looking. Auras flared around him, bleeding through his eyelids; pockets of darkness, weight of sins committed and those just imagined. Rumlow, nothing but black charcoal soul, golden glow turned to ashen hues. No redemption there.

 

“Hey Brock,” Clint called. “You ever heard the story of Brer Rabbit?”

 

“What?” Brock asked.

 

“Oh, yeah, _The Song of the South_ , right? The briar patch,” John answered.

 

“Oh, Lordy, do anything but please don’t throw me in the briar patch.” Clint lifted his head and focused his gaze on Rumlow; dark pupils filled his eyes, only small rims of blue-grey iris. “Seems you fell for the same con.”

 

Ropes broke, Clint surged up, spinning out of the chair and grabbing Cain before he could move. Through his fingertips, images flowed  ... terrified faces, gunshots, shovels of dirt over bodies; bloody knuckles, cries of pain, bones protruding through broken skin; pleas of mercy, arousal at the sound, joy in death … all of Cain’s secrets. Sliding his hand around Cain’s neck, he snapped his spine with one twist.

 

As the man fell lifeless, Clint’s fingers closed around the hilt of the knife he had strapped to his belt. With a fast feint to the left, Clint avoided the Ned’s lunge, catching him by the wrist, using his momentum to swing him around … gun barrel pointed at the center of the old man’s forehead, shaking hands passing over cash, the echo of the shot; meaty fist smacking skin, child’s helpless cry, mother’s sobbing words … and dragged the sharp edge across the main artery in Ned’s neck, blood spraying as he stumbled and slumped down.

 

Never slowing, Clint changed directions, laying a hand on Marvin’s chest … small bags of white powder laced with poison, money changing hands, bulging eyes and blue lips; fingers closing around a smooth neck, choking cries, coming as she cried ... and brought the knife up, slicing in between ribs, puncturing the heart, bright red life’s blood pouring down Clint’s arm.

 

He turned to see Phil standing over Rumlow, holding him down with a foot on his neck; John had put the leather chair between himself and the action.

 

“We need Brock alive,” Phil said, breathing quickly as if he’d been running. “To answer questions.”

 

“Alive, yes,” Clint agreed then lashed out with kicks to Rumlow’s stomach and head. “Unharmed’s a different story.”

 

With a squeak, John turned even paler, watching  as Clint grabbed a hank of Rumlow’s hair and smashed his head into the floor until he was unconscious. Pulling out one of the strings from the blinds, Clint hogtied Rumlow and left him bleeding on the floor.

 

“Look, I’m really sorry about what Brock planned,” John stammered. “But I’m just an initiate; I do what I’m told and Erik ordered us to get rid of the two of you.”

 

“Did he tell you that himself?” Phil asked.

 

“N-n-n-no. I’ve only spoken to him once; Brock told us …” John trailed off, his eyes widening. “You mean it wasn’t? Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

 

Clint ran his bloody fingers over his cheeks and across his forehead, leaving streaks of red like war paint. His chest was spattered with dots of sticky residue, his tattooed shoulder littered with rivulets of blood.

 

“Okay, Shaggy,” he said, touching John’s forehead with his pointer and middle finger. “Your sin is not questioning evil when it was in front of you. For that, your punishment is to be the bearer of the bad news. Tell Lensherr he’s got an infestation in the house and needs to clean it out. No way this ends with Rumlow. Oh, and tell him to take care of this mess; it was his men who caused it. Now, sleep.” Folding down to the floor, John became a crumpled mass, eyes closed as he began to snore.

 

Turning to Phil, Clint ran his eyes slowly over Phil’s torso, reaching out to lay his fingers along the tattoo where it crossed over Phil’s heart. He dragged his fingers down and around, swirls of blood forming a pattern. “Scared yet?” he asked, cupping his palm over Phil’s nipple.

 

“No.” Phil’s voice was low and breathy. Raising his arm, Phil mirrored Clint’s gesture, dabbing his fingers in the drying dots. Without a word, Phil lowered his chin, bowing his head, and tilted his head to the right, baring his neck.

 

Adrenaline turned to arousal; a fierce pride roared through Clint, the act of submission an unexpected gift. His fingers left trails as they grazed the skin up to Phil’s neck and skimmed along the muscle on display. So many emotions poured into Clint … love lost, love won, joy shared, tears cried, bloody fists, healing hands … he leaned forward and ran his tongue along Phil’s shoulder, tasting the very essence of the man.

 

The fear hit him, raw and powerful, a wave coming from somewhere in the house. Raising his head, Clint opened his senses, narrowing the location and catching a flash of dancing bodies mixed with the smell of sex. He was up the stairs in a flash, following the trail through the hallways to a closed door; flipping the knife over, he paused only to know that Phil was behind him then slammed through the threshold, door hitting the wall.

 

On the kingsize bed, spread across the log cabin pattern duvet, a young woman was struggling, trying to keep a bigger man off. Her eyes were glassy, her clothes in disarray, her skirt pushed up to her waist. His pants were on the floor, bare ass lifted the ceiling; catching her around her neck, he growled as he pried her legs apart, laughing when she tried to scream.

 

Clint lunged, yanking the would be rapist and crashing him to the floor. Before he could roll up, Phil knelt, taking hold of the man’s dick and putting his knife up against it. “Move,” Phil said, “and I’ll not hesitate to effect the appropriate punishment for sex offenders.”

 

Sure that was taken care of, Clint held up his hands and spoke soothingly to the terrified woman. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s not going to hurt you anymore.”  She skittered across the bed, curling up by the headboard. “Are you okay? Did he drug you?”

 

“He … Mike … I think he put something in my drink. We were at the Shamrock … Karaoke night, you know? … I thought he was nice …” She trailed off, pushing back a hank of dark hair that had fallen out of her barrette. “I just want to go home. Please?”

 

“Of course.” Clint picked up the set of car keys on the dresser and tossed them to her. “Take his car. Park it in one of the lots on the parkway and leave the keys inside.” As he spoke, his words grew softer, a gentle lilt entering his voice; he lightly brushed her knee, making physical contact. “Walk a few blocks then call someone to come get you. Tell them you’re drunk and want to go home to sleep it off. When you wake up, you won’t remember anything of this place or details about what happened. Then you’re going to get one of those detection kits and use it next time you go drinking.”

 

She nodded, eyes clearer, emotions calm. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she gathered her pocketbook and tugged down her skirt. “Thank you,” she said.

 

“Just be careful in the future,” Clint replied.

 

Once the door was shut behind her, Clint brought his heel down on Mike’s chest, seeing every  face of the women he’d drugged and raped float before his eyes, even a few whose bodies were dropped over the edge of steep roads.

 

“Nine. Nine women, three of them dead. What kind of man gets off on fucking drugged women who can’t fight back?” Stepping up, Clint’s full weight settled on Mike’s chest. “A quick death is too good for you.”

 

“Erik has a unique punishment for those who prey on women,” Phil said. “Trust me, it’s worth leaving him alive to face.”

 

“No.” Mike paled. “Kill me now. Please.”

 

“Brer Rabbit, you’re not,” Clint said. “I’ve got him. Do it, Phil.”

 

Phil placed Mike’s hand against the bedpost; a few words, murmured low, and the wood began to writhe, winding out and circling MIke’s wrist before becoming hard again.

 

“Please, Phil,” he whined. “I’ve done terrible things. I deserve death.”

 

“Oh, now I really want to know what Erik’s going to do,” Clint said as he walked into the adjoining bathroom to wash his hands, ignoring the man’s protestations. 

 

“Knowing him, if you ask nicely, he’ll let you watch,” Phil told him. “But don’t write him off completely; he might not have set Brock on this path but I doubt he would try to stop him.”

 

“So noted.” They left the room, came to the staircase and Clint paused. “How do you feel about blood in your truck? That’s the only option if you don’t want me to fuck you right here, over the banister.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to clean the seat cover. I’m getting too old for acrobatics; I’ll get the keys.”  Phil clattered down the stairs quickly, unconcerned by the dead bodies strewn across the floor. “What about Rumlow?”

 

“Johnny boy will wake up in time; from what you’ve said about Erik, I suspect he’ll deal with him and get the information he needs.”  Clint grabbed his clothes from the floor and scooped up the half-filled mug, carrying it with him to the front door. “Best not leave this around.”

 

Phil picked up his own jacket and shirt in one hand, keys in the other. He paused at the door. “Are you going to get dressed?”

 

“Why would I?” Clint waggled his eyebrows. “Does my nakedness make you uncomfortable?”

 

“More like hot and bothered,” Phil replied. “Makes driving these backroads more difficult.”

 

Without a wince, Clint crossed the the gravel driveway and opened the door to Phil’s truck. “You could navigate these mountains with your eyes closed, Phil.”

 

“True.” Phil climbed in and started the engine. “But I’d prefer not to test my skills; I’ll save my strength for you.”

 

Inside his skin, Clint stretched, pushing his way closer to the surface; as they drove, his senses opened wider and he was overwhelmed with a flood of emotions. A wife angry with her husband. A child dreaming of playing in the waves. A couple in the throes of passion. A truck driver sleepily blinking as he drove through the night. Too many people, too loud, too fast; Clint reeled back, unable to handle it all.

 

Phil’s hand covered Clint’s, an anchor in the midst of the chaos. A steady flow of images filled Clint’s consciousness. A fire, an oath, a line of ink on skin. Muddy trails, green plants, drying tables, full pestles. A sword hilt, leather jerkin, a stout walking stick. A brown haired woman, teasing smile, falling tears. Busy students, rows of chairs, dusty chalk boards. Bloody hands, sharp edges, the scent of death.

 

“What was her name?” Clint asked, voice quiet in the silent cab.

 

“Aubrey. She died from breast cancer before we even knew what it was.” Phil’s fingers squeezed Clint’s. “That was a long time ago.”

 

“You couldn’t save her.” The hopelessness bled through their connection, the sense of loss. “No one could have.”

 

“Not even now. The only cure is finding it early,” Phil said. “It is the course of nature, to live, to die. I’ve come to understand it.”

 

“That’s why you don’t approve of Lensherr. He wants to be proactive, to force change. You prefer to let it happen as it will.” Both parts of Clint hummed in agreement with Phil’s position. “We live in an age of impatience; waiting isn’t a virtue anymore.”

 

“But what comes is all the better for it.” Phil smiled, his face lit only by the dashboard lights. “Revenge, after all, is a dish best served cold.”

 

Clint chuckled. “And here I thought you were talking about sex. Which, as we both know, only benefits from delayed gratification. The chase is foreplay, don’t you agree?”

 

“Nothing like fighting your way out of a trap to raise the libido,” Phil replied.

 

They rode on in silence, the tension between them enough to raise the temperature and make the windows fog up. All parts of Clint were in agreement; the unquestioning acceptance Phil showed aroused him in ways he’d never imagined. He lived in fear of people finding out his secret, sure they’d run from the monster inside of him that didn’t hesitate to kill.

 

“Who taught you the Old Ways?” Phil asked.

 

“My mom.” Her face rose before him, beautiful blue/grey eyes that he saw in his dreams. “She used to tell me stories about Brighid and hell hounds and Cuchulain before my drunken asshole of a father drove them both into a tree. Learning more about the legends was a way to stay connected to her.”

 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Phil squeezed his hand. “She had a gift, didn’t she?”

 

“The sight, for all the good it did for her. She had a blindspot when it came to that bastard; if only he’d killed himself, that would have been justice.” The thought of Harold Barton burned through Clint’s chest; he could admit his mother had been too forgiving, but it was Harold’s abusive anger that took her away. “She could see auras for the most part.”

 

“That’s fairly common.” Phil turned off the paved road and onto a gravel driveway. “Families around here arrived in the early 1700s and brought their beliefs with them.”

 

“And never lost it?” Clint said as Phil’s farmhouse came into view, flood lights clicking on as they pulled up.

 

“Back in the hollows, time changes slow,” Phil agreed. He brought the truck to a stop and cut off the engine. “We keep to our ways.”

 

“Ummmm,” Clint hummed. “Ways that include watching people have sex in the woods?”

 

“You seemed to enjoy it.” As Phil exited the truck, he took the half-full mug and dumped the contents on a holly bush next to the porch. “Too many religions view sex as dirty and immoral; to me, it’s a part of life, as much as birth and death.”

 

Clint crowded up behind Phil as he put the key in the lock. “Well, the French do call orgasm la petite morte, the little death,” he said, his lips close enough to brush against Phil’s ear.

 

They tumbled into the kitchen, Clint kicking the door shut behind them.  He pinned Phil to the nearest wall, bent his head and sniffed along the curve of Phil’s neck. Sweat and blood and pine and a hint of rowan filled Clint’s nose. With a shiver, Phil tilted his head, baring even more of his shoulder as Clint began to drop little kisses along the taut muscle, working his way up to Phil’s ear then sliding his tongue back down. He nipped at the skin and Phil moaned, low in his throat.

 

Hands on Phil’s waist, Clint bumped their hips as he swirled his tongue along the shell of Phil’s ear. Warm breath puffed on Clint’s neck, Phil leaning his head onto Clint’s shoulder. Adding a slight roll to the contact, Clint began to grind their cocks together, matching the licks of his tongue along Phil’s jaw and chin to the motion. Finally, he traced the outline of Phil’s lips, teasing the corners before licking his way inside. They kissed, nothing tentative about the touch, like old lovers who had already mapped the places of desire. Phil groaned into Clint’s mouth, gripping his fingers tight into Clint’s shoulders. Clint chased every curve of Phil’s mouth, the line of his teeth, the taste of his tongue. They both grew harder as the moments passed, the rush of adrenaline turning to flat out lust.

 

“Do you …” Clint breathed.

 

“Cabinet behind you. Third shelf. Swiss Navy. Makes good salve base. Condoms are in my wallet,” Phil said.

 

“Pants. Off.” Clint opened the door, finding the small clear bottle easily enough. By the time he turned back around, Phil had kicked off his pants and was taking a foil packet out of his leather wallet. Grabbing the condom, Clint tugged Phil over to the table, spinning Phil around and sitting down both lube and packet.

 

“Here?” Phil twisted his head around to look at Clint. Taking that as an opening, Clint went back to plundering Phil’s mouth, leaving little room for talk. The kitchen, the living room, the bedroom … location didn’t matter. He wanted to be inside of Phil right this second; any horizontal surface would do.

 

He slicked up one hand while he rubbed his cock along the curve of Phil’s back then broke away from his lips and pushed him face down onto the cool laminate top. Running a hand along Phil’s spine, he circled one slick finger and then slipped it inside. Phil clenched tight around the intrusion, a small groan escaping his lips. As Clint twisted and slid out then back in, he leaned over and brought his mouth back to Phil’s shoulder , fitting his teeth to a curve and biting down. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth; Phil gasped and arched back, taking Clint’s second finger with ease. Clint sucked on the open wound, drawing the taste into his throat; the things that made Phil unique, his history, his loves, his beliefs, crossed over into Clint  in a wave and he knew the good heart that beat inside Phil Coulson’s breast. Letting go, he licked the skin until the blood grew sluggish, taking the moment to put on the condom, line himself up, and push into Phil’s still tight heat.

 

“Oh,” Phil breathed out on a long exhale, getting used to Clint’s cock so deep inside of him.

 

“Phil.” Clint trailed his fingers along the contours of Phil’s back, savoring every little flex and constriction as Phil settled beneath him. Wrapping his hand over Phil’s shoulder, the bite mark between his middle and ring finger,Clint used his other hand to hold Phil’s hip and began to snap his hips in and pull back out in a steady rhythm.

 

It was … heady and intimate and magical, a feedback loop charged with energy that circled through them both. Auras flashed blue and burgundy and purple. Tattoos squirmed and spiraled, crawled down Clint’s arm and onto Phil’s shoulder, forming roots first then the trunk then the leaves of the tree. Each thrust merged them more, Phil’s memories bleeding into Clint’s. Somewhere along the way, Clint quit fighting the other part of himself, let it simply be, and rode the power it provided to the pinnacle that was fast approaching.

 

“[Nu ic onsundran þe secgan wille](http://faculty.virginia.edu/OldEnglish/aspr/a3.32.html).”[1] Phil arched his back, voice breathy and broken. “Clint, I ....”

 

“Die for me, Phil,” Clint whispered.

 

Phil jerked, squeezing tight around Clint’s cock as he came. Light exploded behind Clint’s eyes; he followed Phil over the edge, dropping into his own orgasm, blinded by the intensity of his emotions.  Taking deep breaths, Clint leaned over, resting against Phil’s back, listening to the gradual slowing of his heartbeat as he drifted off.

 

 

[1] “Now I will unseal myself to you alone.” The first line of the Old English poem “The Husband’s Message.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To skip the attempted rape scene, stop reading at the paragraph where Clint bursts into the bedroom door. You can pick up again when Clint tells Phil he wants to fuck him over the banister.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has regrets, Phil doesn't, Charles explains, and Clint reacts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of exposition here. Time for Clint to start getting some answers for a chapter or two before the action really ramps up.

Clint woke with a start, eyes flying open as his heart pounded in his chest. Fragments floated of bodies and blood and sex. He breathed slowly, the ceiling coming into focus, pine boards painted white, a ceiling fan lazily spinning a cool down draft. One arm was hanging off the side of the bed, pillow crumpled under his neck, quilt and sheet pushed down to the foot of the bed. Last thing he remembered was …

 

Beside him, Phil sprawled on his stomach, face turned away, one leg bent, his knee touching Clint’s thigh. Dark red dots were spread over Phil’s skin; dried lines of blood ran from his shoulder, over the purple swirls and lines of the tree tattoo.

 

“No.” Clint tumbled out of bed, hit the floor and scuttled away from the bed until his back hit the dresser. “No, no, no, no.”

 

Bones snapping, knife slicing, blood spurting.

 

“No, no, no.” He shook his head, trying to stop the images.

 

Phil’s skin beneath his mouth, hips gripped in his fingers, body rocking with each thrust.

 

“Oh, God.” Clint dropped his head in his hands. “What did I do?”

 

“What you had to.” Phil sat on the edge of the bed. “Neither of us was supposed to leave that cabin alive.”

 

“I killed them.” Clint looked at his hands, spreading his fingers and turning them from back to front. His forearms had patches of dried blood; he didn’t want to look in a mirror and see the rest. “I didn’t have a choice, did I? Was there another way out?”

 

Phil’s hands framed his face and lifted his head so their eyes met. “There wasn’t a better way. You saved our lives as well as a young woman. I think that more than evens things out.”

 

“Who?” Clint called up a fuzzy picture of a girl on a bed. “Did I hurt her?”

 

Eyebrows creasing, Phil hummed under his breath, a calming sound. “No, it was Mike who slipped her a date rape drug; you sent her home, safe and sound. Do you not remember?”

 

“I never do when it gets out. Just flashes and distortions.” Clint paused as he searched his thoughts. “Although I do remember the drive back here clearly for some reason. And what I did next. Oh, God, Phil, how can you stand to look at me after I … “

 

“After what? After we had some earth-shattering sex on my kitchen table?” Phil’s voice grew confident. “If you’re thinking I wasn’t a willing and more than energetic participant then you can change those thoughts right now because I wanted it just as much as you did.”

 

“I just … I mean …” Clint couldn’t find the words, couldn’t reconcile Phil’s description of last night with the way his stomach was rolling with bitter acid.

 

“I’m the one who should be apologizing. I sat there and let them give you that drug.” Phil’s hand covered Clint’s, tugging it away from his face. “All those dreams of the stone, having you with me, the sex … our connection was already established.  Your Brer Rabbit act: I was sure you were making a play. Taking the potion would strengthen our bond and I would know what you were planning. When I felt the power explode? Trust me, that surprised me.”

 

“It’s not power, it’s some kind of monster under my skin; I keep it controlled most of the time, but when it gets loose, bad things happen,” Clint argued.

 

Leaning in, Phil brushed a light kiss on Clint’s bent knee. “John, the girl … even Rumlow. You didn’t kill them. You were logical and fair in your actions; we were linked, remember? Anger, yes. But also mercy and justice.”

 

“I just don’t understand; You’re telling me something completely different from my experience. I don’t know what to do.”

 

“Well, first thing, we’re going to get cleaned up and I’ll make you a cup of herbal tea that will have you feeling right as rain after a few sips.” Phil stood, offering Clint a hand up. “Then a trip to the Pancake House is in order; I’m hungry enough to eat a bear. Then we deal; turns out, you’re in luck; I happen to know a few people who can help us figure this out. After I talk to Erik, I’ll put a call into Charles; for a glass of good scotch, he’ll drive out our way.”

 

Clint didn’t miss the plural pronouns; Phil was making this their problem. “Maybe I should just head out of town. I don’t want to drop my fucked up life in your lap.”

 

Freezing in place, Phil’s eyes shuttered and his face went blank.  “If that’s what you want,” he said. “But you may never find people better suited to understand than the ones here. Stay long enough, at least, to let them.”

 

“I …” He wanted to stay, he really did. He wanted to crawl back into Phil’s bed, hide his head and stay there until this storm passed. But was it the best course of action? “I am hungry. Let’s eat first then I’ll decide.”

 

Face clearing, a little half-smile crawling upwards, Phil nodded. “That’s sensible. So, shower. I’m afraid the master bath isn’t finished; plumbing’s done, but the tile guy crapped out on me last week. The other one upstairs only has a tub, so we have to use the one downstairs. Let me grab a couple towels.”

 

“I can take a look at it, if you want. Tile work isn’t hard if you’ve done it before. Unless you’ve got those tiny little mosaics to put together.” Clint unfolded himself and stood, looking around for his clothes. “Um, I don’t suppose you know where my pants are?”

 

“I doubt you brought them in from the truck; mine are in the kitchen, I think.” Phil flashed him a cheeky grin. “Nudity didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

 

“Yeah, well, in the cold light of day and all that.” Clint shrugged and followed Phil out into the hallway, taking the towel he handed out of a linen closet. “At least I know the boots will clean up well; the rest are probably a loss.”

 

“You have a habit of losing shirts around me,” Phil agreed as they clattered down the steps; the railing wiggled and a couple of the treads weren’t secured. He led Clint past the kitchen and through what looked like a work room, shelves filled with carefully labeled and alphabetized clear plastic tubs of various sizes to a door that opened onto a small side porch. A wooden fence, a foot taller than Clint, boxed off a square between the porch and the corner of the house.

 

“The shower is outside?” Clint shivered in the cool morning air, goosebumps rising on his skin. Standing naked on the wooden plank floor, he glanced around; trees came within arm’s length, only a small path curving through them to the front of the house.

 

“It’s a stop gap measure, I admit.” Phil tugged opened the spring-hinged door. The platform inside was covered with non-skid tiles; a big rainfall shower head hung overhead, metal piping attached to the wooden fence as it came up from the ground. “Gives me incentive to get the inside work done.”

 

Casually hanging his towel on a wall hook, he turned on the water and let it run for a few seconds. “I did get the tankless water heater last month, so it’ll be nice and warm. I like it ‘boil my skin’ hot. What temp do you prefer?”

 

It was all so normal and yet not. A morning after shower with a view of the squirrels nesting in the tree next door. Surreal. That was the right word. “I don’t mind hot. Rarely get one.”

 

“Come on then,” Phil invited, stepping under the spray and wetting his hair, leaving room for Clint.

 

Drops hit his skin, stinging when the heat hit the bruises on his face. Phil passed the shampoo -- good old fashioned Head & Shoulders -- then a homemade bar of soap that smelled of cinnamon and orange. As soon as the bar left his hands, Phil was running them over Clint, ever so gently scrubbing away all traces of last night. Relaxing, Clint returned the favor, checking out Phil’s tattoos as his fingers traced over the skin.

 

The teeth marks were raised red welts on Phil’s shoulder but the tree looked as if it had been there for years. A fission of fear ran through Clint as he circled the wound, the one he’d given Phil. The weight of Phil’s hand covered his, stilling the motion.

 

“You marked me.” Phil was so close Clint could see the drops of water clinging to his eyelashes. “A very old ritual that I never thought I’d see again, much less be part of.”

 

“I didn’t just … the tattoo Phil. I gave that to you. Somehow.”

 

Phil tilted his head, confused, then walked to the small mirror he’d hung in the far corner where a shelf held a comb, deodorant and hair products. Looking over his shoulder, he stared in the glass, finger tip touching the ink. “By the goddess,” he murmured, eyes widening. “Crann bethadh. Do you know what this is?”

 

“A sacred tree, I suppose. Is it important?” Clint asked.

 

“It represents harmony, balance, strength, and wisdom. A connection between the underworld, the earth, and the heavens.” Phil turned back to Clint. “I’ve heard stories about things like this happening but never in all my years have I seen a blessing of the Gods.”

 

“Jesus, Phil. Biting and tattoos and blessings …” He felt panic rising in his throat.

 

“Don’t freak out.” Phil caught Clint’s hands and pulled him into his arms. “This is good, you and me.” He kissed Clint’s forehead. “Great. Special. A gift.”

 

“My crazy shit in your life is a gift?” He’d been running from himself for so long that he didn’t know any other way to live. “Not sure I’m buying that.”

 

“Okay, would you believe you’re really hot and the sex was damn good?” Phil’s hands slid down Clint’s slippery sides and gripped his hips. “Maybe I like you?”

 

“I’ll give the you the sex because, yeah, good’s an understatement. We can agree to disagree on the rest.”

 

The water was still hot, Phil’s kiss was soft and sweet, and Clint let go of his doubt, sinking into Phil’s embrace. Soapy suds made caresses slide easily, and slick cocks lined up with circles of hips. As rushed as they’d been the night before, this was slow, sweet and tender. As they kissed, the other part of Clint sighed, stretching tendrils out but content not to force anymore control. As his cock hardened, his breathing quickened and Clint cupped Phil’s ass to pull him closer. Phil’s hand stroked them both, working between bodies to curl around. Groaning, Clint squeezed his hands and snapped his hips, Phil’s fingers working their magic. When he finally came, he buried his face into the crook of Phil’s neck and shook with the force of his release as Phil followed him over the edge.

 

“Now I’m really hungry,” Phil said, stroking along Clint’s spine. “But I’d have to move.”

 

“I’m thinking about making a run for the truck to get my clothes but I don’t know what state they’re in,” Clint mumbled against Phil’s skin.

 

“I’ll loan you some sweats; we can swing by Sam’s before we drive into Gatlinburg so you can get clean jeans.” Reluctantly, Phil pulled back. His eyes glanced down. “Has your tattoo always been purple? I thought it was black.”

 

In the same mirror, Clint saw that his shoulder armor was now shadowed with purple just like his bicep one. “They change when our auras mix,” Clint said. “Is the one on my back …”

 

“Still black,” Phil confirmed, handing over a towel. “Let me get the kettle on and I”ll get you something to wear.”

 

While Phil ran upstairs, Clint sat at the very table he’d bent Phil over last night; the other part of him stirred at the memory, satisfaction running through him. So much to mull over, conversations playing over in his brain, new details returning. It was time for some answers; over breakfast, Clint was going to get them.

 

“I think these will fit.” Phil put a pile of clothes on a chair. Clint pulled on the black briefs and grey sweatpants; a well-worn Star Wars shirt was snug across his chest and biceps, but it would do. Being clothed again centered him, like putting on a suit of protective armor.

 

Phil’s phone buzzed; he looked at the screen and chuckled. Thumbing the green icon, he answered. “Good timing as always, Charles. You’re on my to-call list.”  He poured hot water into a pottery cup and added a silver mesh steeper then put it in front of Clint. “Give it four minutes. Sugar’s on the table.” He paused, listening. “No, I’m talking to Clint, not you … Yes … yes … already? … What did he say? … That’s true … I’m not, I promise … That was my idea … Un-huh … Want to try the Lodge instead? If we get there by 10:30 we’ll beat the church crowd … Ask Mack to give you the private table … See you then.”

 

As Phil talked, Clint added a teaspoon of sugar and stirred, swirling the steeper around the mug. The water turned a rich brown, the smell of coconut and ginger wafting up. When Phil hung up, Clint asked, “Charles as in Professor Xavier?”

 

“He says there’s a line all the way down the sidewalk for the Pancake House; ever since Tripadvisor ranked it as the best breakfast spot into Gatlinburg, it’s always packed. We’re going to meet him at the Lodge.” Phil sat down and put on his shoes. “He’s one of the people who can help; Charles is a filid, a seer, one of the best.”

 

“Great. Someone who can read my mind?” Clint asked. He sipped; warm liquid slid down his throat, smooth as slick and perfectly sweetened. Just the smell alone made him relax. He sighed and drank a bigger swallow.

 

“Not exactly,” Phil replied. “But if Charles doesn’t know the answer, he’ll find it.”

 

“Answers would be nice.” Clint raised an eyebrow. “All around.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

The tea raised Clint’s mood and settled the thing inside of him. By the time they arrived at Sam’s house, he was feeling the morning after great sex swagger; Sam was gone, probably to church. Clint put on clean jeans but kept the t-shirt that smelled of Phil’s soap. There was no hiding the bruising on his face, so he settled for grabbing his favorite ball cap to shade the worst part on his brow and left side. His jacket had survived last night none the worse for wear, so he was back in the truck in short order.

 

The drive to The Mountain Lodge didn’t take long; it was tucked off a side road, a low slung log cabin with a handpainted sign and a half-full parking lot. The entryway had a hostess stand in front of shelves filled with local artists’ work from pottery to jewelry. Paintings hung on the walls, a few with the name Rogers in the bottom left corner. The inside of the restaurant was not what Clint expected; muted grey carpets, red and white checked tablecloths, wooden chairs and tables beneath hanging lanterns. Old barnwood halfway up the wall, soothing beige above. From the back corner, Charles Xavier waved their way, ushering them over to a table hidden behind a partition. Clint settled himself in the corner, his face turned away from the rest of the restaurant.

 

“Phil.” A tall muscular man with a shiny bald head clapped Phil on the shoulder as they sat down. “Good to see you, man. Heard Brock was out and word was he was out for blood.”

 

“Funny, I heard he left town. Mack, this is Clint Barton. Clint, the man who makes the best cinnamon rolls in Sevier County.” Phil introduced them. Keeping his head down, Clint nodded Mack’s way; the owner noticed the black eye but didn’t say anything. “Tell me you have pumpkin spice pancakes, and I’ll love you forever.”

 

“You know I’m taken, Phil. Me and Turbo were love at first sandwich. You want a short or tall stack?” Mack answered with a happy smile. “And what about you, Professor? A full English as always?”

 

“With Lady Jane Grey tea,” Charles replied. “I recommend the skillet breakfast if you’re hungry, Clint. Mack’s seasoning is spot on.”

 

“Sounds good,” Clint agreed. “And a large orange juice plus coffee.”

 

“You get your choice of meat, sausage, bacon or ham” Mack said. The man had biceps that flexed as he wrote the order. Too big for Clint’s taste; he definitely prefered older men who were absolute badasses.

 

“Country ham if you have it,” Clint said. “The saltier, the better.”

 

“Is there any other kind?” Mack smiled. “How do you like your eggs?”

 

“Over easy,” Clint replied. “With some hot sauce.”

 

“Got some homemade pico de gallo that’ll clear your sinuses,” Mack said. “I’ll put some on the side. Order will be right up.”

 

They didn’t speak as Mac left then Phil started the conversation without preamble. “So what did Erik say when he called?” 

 

Charles sat back in his wheelchair. “Erik’s pissed; he suspected he had rot in the grove, but this level took him by surprise. He’s got the two under house arrest who are spinning tales of avenging bartenders.”

 

“They’re just embarrassed how easily Clint and I took them down.” Phil winked at Clint. “Brock always assumes everyone will roll over for him.”

 

“AC!” A pretty brunette put down mugs in front of all of them and a glass of juice for Clint. “And Professor X. My two favorite teachers.”

 

“Skye.” Phil smiled, wide and honest. “When did you get back in town?”

 

“It’s Daisy now.” She shrugged, her shoulder length hair swinging free. “Kind of come to peace with being Daisy Johnson, so the Skye phase is over.”

 

“Really? That’s great.” Phil motioned towards Clint. “Then let me introduce Daisy to Clint Barton.”

 

“Oh, AC’s boyfriend!” She put down the teapot and poured coffee into Phil and Clint’s cups. “Darcy’s told me all about you. Wow, Brock really did a number of you! Son-of-a-bitch. I can’t believe he got out on bail.”

 

“Are you planning on staying for awhile?” Charles tossed out, saving Clint from having to come up with a response. “Or is the world still calling?”

 

“All that traveling made me realize how good home is. Got back on Wednesday; had to stop by First Med to get a prescription and they hired Lincoln on the spot. Then I ran into Mack and he had a job opening, so things just fell into place,” Darcy told them.

 

“Lincoln?” Phil asked.

 

“We met in Belarus; he’s a registered nurse and was working with Doctors Without Borders.” Her eyes fairly glowed as she talked. “We’re going to open a wellness center in the mountains; Lincoln has studied acupuncture and reiki, and I learned yoga and meditation in India.”

 

Clint watched the woman’s aura flare and retreat, fairly vibrating with energy. Deep in his ear, Clint could hear a rumble. Across the table, Charles noticed.

 

“Well, bring your young man around and let me meet him. I have to check him out and see if he’s good enough for you,” Phil told her.

 

“No badgering Lincoln, Dad.” Darcy glanced over as Mack ushered a new family to another table. “And here comes the brunch rush. I’ll give Clint his shovel talk later.”

 

“Should I be scared?” Clint asked as she walked away.

 

“Oh yes. Skye … Daisy can be quite intimidating,” Phil replied. “But I think you can handle it. Now, we’ve got some questions. Do you want to start?”

 

Honestly, Clint didn’t know what he wanted other than some food in his stomach and a lot more of the chicory coffee. “How about I lay out what I already know and you two can fill in the blanks?”   When they both nodded, he continued. “So, you’re both followers of the Old Ways; I’m going with druids since Brock said he needed enough people to have a grove. Erik’s the leader of this grove … region, maybe, I’m not clear on how big an area it is … and Brock and the others were supposed to be his followers but Brock went off the reservation and made a play to take out you, a potential threat because you’re at least equal in rank to Erik, maybe even higher. How am I doing so far?” He paused to take a drink of juice.

 

“Pretty impressive, actually,” Charles said. “Please go on.”

 

“There’s a lot of people around here who know what you guys are but aren’t part of the grove or whatever, and a whole passel of them have unique auras that mean they’re different than an average human. And there’s something in the woods that everyone’s afraid of and it ain’t the sacred stone circle where you have rituals.”  He sat back, pretty impressed with himself. “Oh, and Phil’s potions, teas, and salves are herbal medicines slash something more powerful.”

 

“He’s smart,” Charles told Phil. “I can see why you like him.”

 

“He’s a lot more than that,” Phil replied before he turned his attention back to Clint. “Yes, I’m a druid. Erik is the archdruid of the Southeastern Appalachian Grove; I used to be before I moved out of the area and when I returned, I agreed to stay out of Erik’s business so there would be no doubt who was in charge. Brock and the other are initiates; most followers remain at that level unless they show aptitude for advanced studies.”

 

“Like John,” Clint interjected. “And the potion.”

 

“John?” Charles asked, looking at Phil.

 

“St John Allerdyce. I’m going to recommend him for further study. Brock told him last night was Erik’s orders ,” Phil replied.

 

“Ah, I thought the boy had promise, assuming he can reign in his shadows.” Charles nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe this will be enough of a scare to keep him on the right path.”

 

Daisy returned with a loaded tray; the conversation stopped as she chatted on about her new boyfriend. Once Clint saw the iron skillet placed in front of him, he tuned her out, stomach rumbling at the sight and smell of layers of fried potatoes, ham, eggs, biscuits, gravy, and two mini-cinnamon rolls on a separate. Tasting the pico with his spoon -- it burned a little bit on the tongue and left a spicy aftertaste on the back of his throat -- he poured it over the the pile of delicious looking food and grabbed his fork. The other part of him hummed with pleasure as the first bite went down.

 

Digging into his plate of pancakes, Phil continued between bites. “There are many followers in the area; they’re drawn to the stones and the mountains. There’s been a grove here since 1728; we’re the second oldest in the country.”

 

“Douglas Coulson?” Clint asked.

 

“Deirdre. She was a priestess of Brighid; her family brought a small lode stone from their sacred forest. According to the story, they landed in Philadelphia, moved west then south down the mountains until they found the standing stone here.” Phil sipped his coffee. “Since most everyone are descendents of those early settlers, the ones who aren’t believers respect the tradition.”

 

“Truth is, many have genetic markers that trace back even further,” Charles interjected. “I’ve been studying the way the genes have mutated over the centuries. It’s fascinating to trace how some traits disappear and others are transmitted. My own mutation, for example, comes from an ancestor who was a High Priestess of Cerwiden.”

 

“So the sight is in my genes?” Clint stacked a bite of biscuit, potato, eggs, ham and sopped up gravy before raising the fork to his mouth.

 

“It’s no different than eye color or height,” Charles explained. “Probably runs in your family.”

 

Phil raised an eyebrow and looked at Clint. It was, after all, his story to to tell. “I’ve always seen auras but … the rest of it didn’t start until I was a teenager.”

 

“The rest?” Charles glanced over at Phil. “Ah, your unique aura. I thought I’d triggered something the other night.”

 

“Yeah, things got a little weird,” Clint told him. “Still not sure what  was up with Bucky’s silver arm.”

 

“You saw Bucky’s true form?” Phil jumped in to ask. “What else did you see?”

 

“Darcy had pointy ears and Sif was in armor. Charles was wearing velvet robes.” The images were still clear if confusing. “Elves and warriors and wizards. Like a freaking role-playing convention.”

 

Phil shook his head in amazement. “Sif’s a Carter, related to Peggy,” he told Charles. “Their family claims to be direct descendents of Boudica, servants of Andraste.  Darcy’s great-great-grandfather was daoine.”

 

“It’s not just seeing true visages, is it?” Charles asked Clint. “There’s more.”

 

“I …” he stalled, unsure then took a breath and forged ahead. “Last night, I knew things about the men. What they’d done, terrible acts, murder and rape. It’s like I could see how dark their hearts were. And Phil’s past; I saw bits and pieces when we were … close.”  Clint took a few minutes to share the details as they ate, relieved to get it off his chest. He didn’t tell them about his increased physical strength, speed, or senses, how easy it was to kill a man. “That’s about it.”

 

“You told John his sin was not questioning orders and gave him a choice.  And later, you asked about Aubrey,” Phil supplied. “Plus, there’s the new tattoo on my back -- a tree of life.”

 

Eyes widened at Phil’s words then Charles sipped his tea, thinking. “Tell me about your family. Are any of them Welsh? Irish? Scottish?”

 

“My mom, but she died when I was young. I got the sight from her. My dad, well, he was nothing but a brute. I think his family were German, but, as far as I know, they were all dead before I was born.” Clint had never met any of his parents’ family; he honestly had no idea if any of them were alive out there somewhere.

 

“Creating a bòid is an ancient skill that has all but died out.To be an inherited trait, I’d expect it to come from a parent or, at the most, a grandparent.” Charles tilted his head as if he could look deeper into Clint just by changing the angle.

 

“It’s not a trait.” Clint put down his fork, trying to explain. “It’s like … something taking over, angry and violent, beyond my control. It’s not human … no morals, no rules, no regrets.”

 

“That’s not what I saw,” Phil disputed. “You weren’t angry, you were … dispensing justice to those who deserved it.”

 

“It wasn’t justice.” Clint looked down at his plate; it was empty and he was still hungry. “Whatever this is, I want to get rid of it.”

 

Phil pushed over what was left of his pancakes; he’d eaten about two thirds of the huge circles, handing Clint the syrup. As he tipped up the white porcelain pourer, Clint watched the drizzle of brown maple sweetness and had a sudden image of a squiggle across his stomach, Phil’s tongue licking it up. Jerking his head up, Clint caught Phil’s eye; a red blush stained Phil’s cheeks.

 

“You’re still connected.” Charles glanced between them. “Whatever happened has left a mark. I really need to …”

 

“You guys want a refill?” Daisy stopped by the table, a fresh pot of coffee in her hand.

 

“I think we’re ready for the bill. It’s my treat today,” Charles said laying his fork on his almost empty plate.

 

“Sure thing, Prof. Coming right up.”

 

She turned away and Charles pitched his voice low. “We need to take this someplace more secure. I think it’s important to understand; I’m sorry, Clint, but I’m going to need to read you more fully.”

 

“Sam’s kept up his grandmother’s space; I’ve used it a few times for rituals,” Phil said. “Is Sam home?”

 

“He’s on the afternoon shift; I’m supposed to go in at four,” Clint replied. “His grandmother was a druid? But she was a member of Zion Grove Baptist. I’ve had their casseroles.”

 

“Ah, an interesting bit of trivia that goes back to the underground railway and outreach of the church. Zion church was very active in the abolitionist movement and a number of grove members helped establish it as one of the stops,” Charles explained.

 

“Zion Grove. Duh.” Clint got the picture; the Christian church had often taken existing religions and folded them into their teachings.

 

“Madge was one of the best herbalist midwives in the Smokies,” Phil said. “Her salves were legendary for healing everything from boils to shingles.” 

 

“And her Mongfind punch certainly aided in the conception of quite a few Samhain babies,” Charles added. “One time, Phil even convinced Jasper that he was pregnant; that’s how powerful Madge’s recipe is.”

 

“I’d forgotten that! He swore he had morning sickness for a whole month.” Phil laughed and Clint noticed how his eyes sparkled. “I can’t believe he bought it.”

 

“Mack said there’s still no charge,” Darcy said as she passed by with a full tray. “For the help you gave Leo after the accident.”

 

“At some point, he’s going to have to let me pay again,” Charles told her retreating form.

 

“No, he’s not!” she said in return.

 

They left with a take home styrofoam container of cinnamon rolls; Charles rolled off the end of the porch and pushed a remote button that opened the side of his van. A ramp lowered and he maneuvered behind the wheel, locking his chair in place before closing the door and following them back to Sam’s house. As they pulled to a stop, Sam was heading for his car, ready to go to work. He waited until they got out, shielding his eyes from the midday sun, searching their faces, mouth setting in an angry line when he saw Clint’s face.

 

“Well, damn,” he said. “The rumors must be true. Something went down last night.”

 

“What have you heard?” Phil asked.

 

“Lots of tidbits but nothing concrete. Steve ran into Bobby Drake at Coffee and Company this morning; he mentioned he heard dogs in the woods and said you told him to get inside. Anita Pierce’s little dog Gigi kept her up to all hours scratching at the doors and cowering under the bed. A girl Darcy knew in high school disappeared from The Shamrock then showed back up on the Parkway with little memory of what happened in between. Logan came back from Knoxville early this morning and was in a pissy mood, snapping at everyone. Sif saw riders in the woods near the pub after she closed up. And my grandma called just after you left for breakfast to tell me to open up the cellar and air it out.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, I know better than to ask what’s going on, but for Clint’s sake, I’m going to remind all of you that there’s safety in numbers. Don’t keep us in the dark if you need help.”

 

“You’re right,” Phil said. “Once we know for sure what’s happening, we’ll let you know. Just keep your head down and the wards up for awhile.”

 

Catching Clint’s eyes, Sam sighed. “I’m sorry you’ve gotten dragged into this town’s weirdness. But you’re safe in this house as long as you want.”

 

“Thanks, man.” Clint really meant it; it was nice to have someone believe in him even if Sam didn’t know the truth. “I appreciate it.”

 

He nodded one more time then got in his car and left them to make their way to the cellar doors; Sam had put down wooden planks so Phil could roll Charles down the stairs and into the very clean and well-maintained basement. Stone foundation walls were chinked tight to keep out cold, the floor old bricks that spiraled out from a center drain. A wooden door in the back wall was framed by shelves on one side and a pegboard hung with a mixture of pots, spoons, and other tools. Phil shut the doors behind them and Clint noticed the wooden lintels that framed the entrance, symbols burned into the corners and across the top. The three partial windows were circled by the same symbols.

 

“Grab that stool and put it in the center of the room,” Charles said to Clint. “Have a seat. Phil, check the wards for me, please. We’ll start easy.” He rolled up to face Clint and offered a hand. “At any point you feel uncomfortable, just break contact.”

 

A wave of panic washed over him; his stomach rolled and he swallowed down the acid that rose.up. “It’s too dangerous; I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

Phil stood behind him, placing his hands on Clint’s shoulders. “Charles can put you to sleep if needed but I doubt he’ll need to. Trust me on this, Clint; I saw you last night. You weren’t out of control.”

 

“I …” Clint took a deep breath and forced down his anxiety. “Just promise me you’ll protect yourself.”

 

“I won’t need to.” Phil squeezed lightly. “But I promise.”

 

With a jerky nod of assent, Clint put his hand in Charles’.

 

The robes were black today, a woven cotton, edges frayed with wear. Xavier’s head was bald, his eyebrows grey; an older man, face lined with wisdom, sat in front of Clint. Quick flashes of Charles with another man -- long slow kisses, a warm sandy beach, whispered promises -- and the heartbreak that followed.

 

Turning his head, Clint saw Phil’s strong left hand, fingers adorned with silver rings;  tattooed bracer was replaced by hammered metal. Muscular forearms led to biceps and powerful shoulders decorated with inked lines, three swirls in an interconnected  at the center with outer bands that swirled and extended all the way up his neck. The low hanging torc was now a necklace, brushed metal clasping gems of amethyst and agate. Slashes of blue crossed his chest and cheeks, a longer one on his forehead, drawn V just above the leather band of his pants.

 

“Whoa.” Clint tilted his head back. “You’re … hot as hell.”

 

Phil’s grin looked all the more provocative to Clint’s libido. “What do I look like?”

 

“A sexy celtic version of a Chippendale’s dancer … only you’re the real thing not pretend.” The other part of him stirred, raising his head and stretching. It pressed against the wall, testing Clint’s control. Closing his eyes, Clint shoved it back, pushing aside the sexual rush he was feeling. “Just like in my dream with the bonfire and the music.”

 

“You’ve been dreaming?” Charles asked. “Tell me about them.”

 

“Now you sound like a shrink. Next you’ll ask about my relationship with my father.” Clint half-joked, but he suspected they were headed that direction. “The dreams come in two types; first one, I’m being chased through the woods by dogs and men … things … on horses. People try to block my path … sometimes it’s Rumlow … and I always end up at the stone circle. That’s why I followed Bobby and Kitty when I heard them talking about it; to see if it was a real place.”

 

“Someone’s called the Hunt.” Phil’s face grew grim. “We heard them last night.”

 

“Wait, the Hunt? The Wild Hunt?” Clint had heard of that. “But it only comes out on All Hallow’s Eve to chase unwary souls; I remember a story about a murderer trying to escape it and finding himself part of the pack.”

 

“The Hunt’s free to do as it will on Samhain, but it can be called and set upon someone at other times,” Phil told him. “A reckless course of action; once released the Hunt can take on a life of its own and do a lot of damage to innocents. That’s why it’s against the rules of the grove to call it.”

 

“And the second type?’ Charles prompted.

 

“A bonfire, at night, music, dancing, people in masks, a lot of nudity. The Maximoff twins are playing … although I only see the brother, what’s-his-name, I can hear her singing.”  Clint pauses and the image comes to life before him.

 

“Pietro,” Phil supplied.

 

“Right, yeah, Pietro. Sexy jailbait.”Clint shrugged and winked at Phil. “I’m more into older warrior types; I end up dancing with you sometimes.”

 

“The dancing, I remember.” Phil smiled.

 

Charles cleared his throat, dragging Clint’s attention back to the problem at hand.

 

“Right. The dream.” She appeared in front of him, as young and beautiful as always. “My mother’s there. She draws me into the dance and I lose any concept of time, just the rhythm of the music. Then someone grabs me, tries to hold me and Pietro changes songs, and I’m free. That’s when the hunt comes right through the middle of us all, riding off into the night. The guy in the back always nods to me as he passes.”

 

“My beautiful boy.” His mother ran a hand down his face cupping his chin as she bent over him. “What a man you’ve become. I couldn’t be more proud.”

 

A shadow coalesced behind her, a man with a permanent scowl and bloodshot eyes. “He’s a pain in the ass that should never have been born.”

 

Harold Barton towered over Edith, his hands clenched in fists, dark blue eyes filled with hatred. A spark or red hot hatred roared to life inside of Clint; the wall dissipated as easily as smoke and the other sprang to the surface.

 

“Get away from her.” Clint stood nose-to-nose with his father. “You’re dead. You have no power over anyone anymore.”

 

“Well look at you, you  jumped up little shit. I knew there was a devil inside you.” A slow, feral grin slid across the older man’s face. “I should have ended you before you were born.”

 

“Maybe. But you didn’t and I’m here and you’re not. Go back to hell, old man.” He waved his hand right through Harold’s chest and he was gone.

 

“I’m sorry, Clint.” His mother began to fade. “Harold was my mistake. I couldn’t wait, thought he was the one, the shadowy man in my dreams. But you? You are the best decision I ever made.”

 

Then she was gone and Clint flexed his fingers, releasing his tension and unclenching his jaw. “Son-of-a-bitch.”

 

“Clint. Turn around.”

 

Phil held a small rectangular mirror and Clint saw himself framed in the glass. Scrolling lines of tattoo crawled along his arms and over his chest, disappearing beneath the leather vest that gaped open. A quarrel of arrows rose over his shoulder with purple and white fletching. Pants rode low on his hips, revealing a belt with knives and a sword attached, elaborate pommel at hand height. A shooting glove on his right hand, arm guard on his left. It was his eyes that made all the difference. Large black pupils stared out at him, birdlike and disconcerting.

 

“What the hell am I?” Clint asked his reflection.

 

“”What you were always meant to be,” his reflection answered.

 

“I’m a monster.” 

 

“You’re not,” Charles told him. “I can promise you that.”

 

“Can you, Filid?” Clint turned on him. “I am capable of so much more.”

 

“True,” Charles said.  “There isn’t another inside of you, Clint. There’s just you and your genetic heritage. Once you accept that, you can control it.”

 

“No.” Clint stumbled back. “I can’t … I’m sorry. I can’t.”

 

He ran up the stairs, throwing the doors open; he dug the keys from his pocket, swung his leg over and started the bike. Spinning gravel, he took off down the road, unsure of where he was going and if he was going to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mountain Lodge is a mom and pop restaurant near Pittman Center. They do have the most amazing cinnamon rolls, but the rest of it is my invention. 
> 
> Yes, there is actually a Zion Grove Baptist Church there too. 
> 
> Part of the fun is figuring out everyone's "true selves." There were generally three types of druids -- ovates (healers, scholars, those who studied indepth), bards (not just musical but also the ones who traveled and brought news and healing to towns), and druids (the leaders, warriors, most powerful and oldest of the group). Charles is an ovate; the word "filid" is an gaelic title for a seer or oracle. Phil and Erik are druids, both very high rank. I'll let you guess who the bards are in the story *winks*. As to the others, well, google Boudica, Andraste, and daoine for hints. 
> 
> A "boid" is gaelic for a vow or a promise. 
> 
> Crann bethadh = tree of life (see Phil's explanation)
> 
> And if you want to read some to get a jump on what's coming, search for the "tuatha de danann"
> 
> Yeah, I just gave you optional homework. I'm such a teacher at heart. *smiles*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PIzza with the guys, an even bigger fish arrives, a late night phone call, and a shovel speech. Clint's having a busy few days.

In the end, it was the kindness he’d been shown that made him turn the bike around.  Sam sharing his home, Peggy giving him a job, Logan loaning him the bike … there were too many good people for Clint to just disappear. He owed them an explanation at least, and he couldn’t leave Peg in a lurch. So he pulled up to the pub with ten minutes to spare and took out his phone, calling Phil’s number, half-hoping he got voicemail and the other half wanting to hear Phil’s voice telling him everything was alright.

 

At the beep, Clint pulled himself together and left a message. “Yeah, um, I just wanted to be sure you knew that I’m not running from you. You are … it’s good. We’re good. I just don’t … yeah, so, I’m at work. I’ll, um, call you later. Okay?”

 

Shaking his head, he pocketed the phone and went inside, annoyed at his inability to express himself better. People stopped talking as he crossed the floor; he’d lost his ball cap at some point, before he stopped and put his helmet on, so the red puffy bruises were on clear display.

 

“You okay to do this?” Peggy asked as he tied his apron on.

 

“I’m fine,” Clint assured her. If he focused on work, he could keep the rest at bay. “Phil gave me some tea that helped.”

 

Peggy nodded, but her eyes watched him as he moved behind the bar. “Going to be a lot of talk tonight. Just ignore it; we’ll back you up.”

 

“Thanks.” Clint paused then thought better of ending the conversation there. “I appreciate it. All of it. You’re good people.”

 

“So are you, Clint,” she replied.

 

He worked his four hour shift until the early Sunday closing time. Logan came in, took one look at Clint’s face, muttered a string of curses, drained his beer, and left. Darcy’s chatter made Clint feel better; anything normal put distance between him and the strangeness of his life. The way patrons reacted to Clint was a perfect indicator on who was keyed in and who wasn’t; the sheriff’s wife and her best friend Oro exchanged concerned glances over their burgers.

 

Break came around 7:30; Clint had a response from Phil. “Take as much time as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

The words buoyed his mood and Clint finished out the night feeling more centered. The last customers left just a few minutes after nine; closing up, he and Sam walked Peggy to her house and Darcy to her car. With one ear open for dogs, Clint followed Sam back, all too aware that Sam was worried about him. The biggest danger, it turned out, was falling asleep behind the wheel.  After eating the last piece of leftover chicken, exhaustion catching up to him, Clint sent a text to Phil and went to bed, sleeping for over twelve hours straight with no dreams.

 

Monday was the perfect weather for working outside; Clint spent most of the day measuring twice and sawing the pre-treated wood for the new window sills, priming and painting them a dark pewter gray in preparation for installing them. Sam worked alongside him, a paintbrush in his hand; by four, they had the damaged pieces pulled off and were using the borrowed nail gun to put the new ones in place. They finished all the windows on the front of the house and had the newly measured wood ready for the back ones by six. Sweaty and covered in sawdust, Clint relaxed in the porch swing, drinking homemade sweet tea, a day of honest labor with his hands going a long way to settling his wounds.

 

“You up for pizza?” Sam said, sticking his head out of the front door. Riley stirred from his place at Clint’s feet, raising his head at the sound of his favorite word. “Steve and Bucky are heading down to Big Daddy’s. I’m craving some dough daddies and a slice or two of taco pie. Want to call Phil and see if he’ll meet us there?”

 

“I’m down with any food right now,” Clint admitted, scrolling through his phone’s contacts until he found Phil’s number. The man answered on the third ring. “Hey, how do you feel about having pizza with Sam, Steve, Bucky, and me?” Clint asked.

 

“If that gang’s involved, it’s got to be Big Daddy’s. Tell them to order a Bee Sting and I’ll be there soon as I can. I’m sitting in traffic on Chapman Highway; class ran over and I think there’s some new construction ahead,” he said.

 

“I’ve got to shower before we go anyway. Been working on the windows all day, so I’m nice and sweaty. It will take us a half hour or more to leave the house.” Clint threaded his way around Riley who was dancing with anticipation around his feet.

 

“A shower, huh? Too bad I’m not there to share it with you. I’ve got some ideas about our next one,” Phil said, his voice distinct above a blast of car horns. “Ah well it will give me something to think about instead of killing these people who insist on cutting over at the last minute. Oh, wait, I can see where the lanes narrow; that’s a good sign.”

 

“You keep those ideas,” Clint replied with a chuckle, opening the screen door. “And I’ll see what I can do about making them a reality later.”

 

“I’ll take that as a promise,” Phil said then clicked off.

 

The pizza place was fairly quiet on Monday night.  Steve had already grabbed a table in the back near the kitchen; Bucky was in the game room, beating the high score on skeeball, sinking the middle circle every other time. A pitcher of HIghland Gaelic Ale was waiting with extra glasses; Clint filled one and sipped the craft brew as Sam and Steve argued about the order.

 

“I already ordered a large dough daddies and  two pounds of wings,” Steve told them. “Only question is which pizzas and how many. I vote for a carnivore, a porky pie, and a taco pie.”

 

“Phil wants a Bee Sting?” Clint made it a question since he was still searching the menu for a description. “Oh, here it is. Honey and red pepper flakes? Interesting.”

 

“You getting something without meat, right?’ Bucky said, swinging his leg over his chair and sliding in. “Leave the decisions to Steveo here and we’ll be gnawing on bones. Get a Tuscan without chicken.”

 

“Spinach and artichokes are not my idea of a pizza topping.” Steve knew exactly how to wind up his friend. “Man was meant to eat meat not graze like rabbits.”

 

They finally ordered all five pizzas; leftover slices were Clint’s favorite breakfast food. Sam filled the others in on the progress they’d made on the windows: wings showed up along with baked, garlicky twists of dough dripping with butter.

 

“You know anything about sinking floorboards?” Steve asked Clint as he finished off a wing and dropped the bones in the provided basket. “The shop’s backroom is sloping; I think we need to replace some of the wood, but I’m pretty much the opposite of a handyman.”

 

“Tried to put insulation in the attic and ended up in the ER getting splinters picked out of his …” Bucky started, but Steve interrupted.

 

“I fell, okay. How many times do I have to tell you that?” he said. Seemed Bucky could give as good as he got.

 

“I’ll come take a look at it. Is it an older building? Foundations sink over time; could just be a matter of shimming the low spots.” Clint snagged another dough knot before Bucky got it.

 

“It’s [an old church](http://greatsmokyartsandcraftscommunity.com/_shops/jim_gray_gallery_gatlinburg_tn_670.jpg), been around for over a hundred and twenty five years. I share it with some other artists; you know Oro Munroe? She makes the most beautiful hanging sculptures and wind chimes from clay. All nature based, she can really capture the sense of a storm or rain through shape and sound. You probably haven’t met Janet yet; she’s splitting her time between Knoxville and here, planning her wedding to Hank.”

 

“Hank works with Bruce in the science department at UT,” Sam interjected.

 

“Anyway, she’s a metalsmith, makes amazing jewelry based on beetles and wasps and butterflies. We can’t keep her pins in stock,” Steve finished.

 

“Don’t forget Wade.” Bucky nudged Steve and made a face.

 

“No one can forget Wade Wilson,” Sam said.

 

“Hey now, he might be a little …” Steve searched for the right word.

 

“Crazy?” Bucky offered.

 

“Certifiable?” Sam threw in.

 

“...unusual,” Steve continued, “but his primitive style is very evocative of the celtic mythology and roots of the early settlers.”

 

“The tourists love their names in Ogham,” Bucky told Clint. “Of course, who knows what Wade actually writes on the signs. I think he makes it up, but Logan says it’s funny sayings.”

 

“Sounds like I need to drop by,” Clint replied. “Check out the place, see what needs to be done. When are you open?”

 

Steve insisted Clint give him an official estimate that included labor costs. “We’ve been needing a good handyman around here. Most of the people are from Knoxville or down in Sevierville; hell, even the Home Depot charges extra to come up further than the Parkway. Somebody could make a living fixing up stuff.”

 

“Subtle, Steve. Real subtle,” Bucky said. “You just want Clint to stay so Peggy doesn’t have to find another bartender.”

 

“Whatever makes Peg happy makes my life better,” Steve said without any trace of sarcasm. “She sings your praises; if you don’t watch it, she’ll have you opening and closing and running the place so she can drag me off to England to meet the extended family.”

 

“Better you than me,” Bucky said.

 

The pizzas arrived just moments before Phil came in the front door; he grabbed the chair next to Clint and joined the table, filling his plate and jumping into the conversation. HIs knee bumped Clint’s, a warm reminder of promises made; Clint took a slice of two different kinds and started working on them.  Laughter and another pitcher of beer made for good time, an easy commeraderie Clint wished he could fold into and enjoy. But nagging at the back of his mind was unfinished business he needed to face.

 

“Steve’s cheating,” Bucky said as he sat down to grab another piece of pizza. In the game room, Phil and Steve were going hard at the foozball table, Sam playing referree. “Everyone thinks he’s Mr. Squeaky Clean, but the man plays to win.”

 

“He whipped my ass, that’s for sure.” Clint nibbled on the last piece of the Tuscan. “You know, this is pretty good as it is.”

 

“They use spinach and artichoke dip as the sauce.” Bucky dipped the taco piece into a pineapple-chipotle sauce before he took a bite. “So,” he said as he chewed, “Brock give you those bruises?”

 

With a shrug, Clint folded the slice. No one had said he couldn’t talk about it, but he didn’t really want to. “I hear Erik’s taking care of Rumlow. Something about Columbia, I think.”

 

“Right.” Bucky’s side glance made it clear he didn’t believe that. “You know, I was a sniper in the army, stationed in Afghanistan; lost the arm in an IED attack and got myself captured. Steve was the one who came and rescued me; took down half a mountain to do it. He’s got a very clear sense of right and wrong; when he decides to go to war, heaven help anyone who gets in his way. Me, I’m more of a shades of grey kind of guy. I’ll take the shot if it means saving someone else down the line. Brock and his little gang, well, they’ve left a swath of hurt in their path and were only getting bolder. Anybody put a stop to that did a good thing in my opinion.”

 

Clint raised an eyebrow and kept chewing, gathering his thoughts before he answered. “I’ll take your word for it, me being an outsider and all.”

 

“Outside, my ass.” Bucky snorted. “You’re right in the middle of the mess. Look, you’re not alone; some of us understand and can help. You’re a warrior, like me; you know that a battle once joined has to be finished.”

 

“Or I hit the road and never look back.” Clint had enough of dancing around the topic. “I’m just a wanderer passing through.”

 

“Better brush up on your epic stories then ‘cause that’s the definition of a celtic hero.”  Bucky stood up and brush crumbs off his shirt. “Already got the love story going.”

 

“... honest-to-God, I don’t know why you bother,” Sam was saying as they came to the table. “You know how he gets.”

 

“Hope springs eternal.” Phil casually slung his arm over the back of Clint’s chair. “Steve cheats,” he told Clint.

 

“So I heard.” Clint watched as Steve dropped some bills on the table to cover their share of the bill. “You guys heading out?”

 

“I’ve got early prep in the morning; Logan brought some fresh vension yesterday so I’m making stew. And Steve’s driving since he doesn’t get drunk.” Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve’s huff. “Miracle metabolism over there.”

 

“Do you want a ride home or not?” Steve said. “Cause I’m leaving.”

 

“Yeah, me too.” Sam put his jacket on. “I don’t have a good reason, I’m just leaving so it’s less awkward when Phil offers Clint a ride.”

 

“Hey now, don’t make assumptions; Clint could be the top dog.” Bucky grinned.

 

“Awkwardness just like that,” Sam said, grabbing Bucky by the shoulder of his shirt and tugging. “Let’s go, Barnes, before you make a bigger idiot out of yourself.”

 

“It’s too late for that; Barnes doesn’t know when to quit.” 

 

The newcomer was a petite woman whose bright red hair brushed against her shoulders in curly waves. A hand on one jean clad hip, she surveyed each one of them in turn with green eyes that saw everything.

 

“You’d be the one to know,” Bucky replied. The man never looked away, gaze intense. “Been awhile.”

 

“The job keeps me busy; there is such a thing as answering your phone.”  She cut off Bucky’s response by greeting the others. “Steve. Sam. Phil. good to see you.”

 

“Natasha.” Steve nodded. “If you’re in town does that mean …”

 

“Well the gang’s all here; good. Makes it easier this way.” Tall, slim and bald, the African American gentleman had a patch over one eye that matched his black leather jacket. “Have a seat. Any pizza left? I’m hungry.”

 

When Clint started to shift in his chair, Phil’s hand squeezed his shoulder, reassuring him. Extending his fingers, Phil traced the tips along Clint’s bicep tattoo.

 

“Dramatic as always. You drive all the way here for some moonshine? I hear Ole Smoky is making [128 proof ](http://olesmoky.com/products/blue-flame)now,” Phil asked. It didn’t escape Clint’s notice that, as the newcomer sat down and opened take out boxes, choosing a slice of the carnivore, the red head stayed standing, on guard, back in a corner where she could see all activity.

 

“They do? I’ll have to go try it before I leave town.” He bit into the pizza, swiping Phil’s glass to sip his beer. “You gonna introduce me or have you forgotten your manners?”

 

“Fine. Clint, this is Nicholas Fury, Sept of the Eastern Seaboard, and his Hand, Natasha Romanova. I have, unfortunately, known Nick for many years and even, at points, called him a friend,” Phil said. “Nick, Natasha, this is Clint Barton, my current boy toy.”

 

Nick threw his head back and laughed, an honest response that broke the tension. “Oh, God, Cheese, you don’t know how much I miss your sense of humor. I’m surrounded by so much horse shit that I need a good laugh now and again. The Council’s faces would shatter if they so much as chuckled.”

 

“That’s true,” Phil agreed.

 

“So you’re Barton.”  The full force of Fury’s one eye turned on Clint, sending a shiver up his spine. A long slow perusal followed and each second ticked by at an agonizing pace. It was invasive, thorough and yet strangely passive, as if Fury was waiting for something. Clint’s other stayed quiet, not even a flicker of anger at the obvious judgement. “Hear you mix a mean drink and Peggy’s lucky to have you on board. Just walked right in the night Frost punked out and left Peg high and dry.”

 

“Right place, right time,” Clint replied; the back of his neck began to itch at the intense stare. “Come by and I’ll fix you an [Electric Lemonade](http://olesmoky.com/recipes/electric-lemonade).”

 

“Thursday night good for you? Peggy said you’re off at six. We can meet you at the Pub, nice neutral territory.” Fury didn’t pause for Clint’s response. “Phil, you’re done with classes by then, right? If you’d join us, we can all get to know each other.”

 

“You planning on sticking around that long? I’ll have to turn the heat on to the rest of the house,” Phil said. “And stop by the liquor store to stock up on scotch.”

 

“No way am I staying with you. That isn’t a house, it’s ramshackle collection of rocks and wooden beams. You ever get hot water in that money pit?” Fury started in on a second piece, offering the styrofoam box to Natasha. She took a slice of the carnivore pizza..

 

“Went with the tankless heater. Never run out.” Phil answered.

 

“Yeah, well, you might like the history of the place, but I like comfort. Rented one of those luxury cabins with the hot tub on the porch. I’ll have you over so I can beat your ass at pool.” He sighed and finished off the beer. “As to the rest of you heroes, I’ve got a job for you. Some idiot’s gone and called the Hunt. Until we figure out who their target is, we need to create safe havens. Re-energize public wards and get the Ladies Circle to have a bake sale. Much as I hate those silly ribbons, the yellow ones on the trees cover a large area. Put ‘em along the road into and out of town.”

 

“The fall colors are on; the park is crawling with tour buses and visitors,” Steve said. “This is the worst time with Halloween coming up; four weeks for their power to grow.”

 

“And a lot of people with enough darkness to draw the dogs. I intend to get to the bottom of this before it escalates.” Fury put the take out box in front of Sam. “Okay, we’re done. I need to have words with Phil, but the rest of you can go home.”

 

“Excuse me, but I have plans for the evening,” Phil protested.

 

Fury glared at him then said one word. “Kandahar.”

 

“Damn it.” Phil sat back down with a thump. “I’ll text you,” he said to Clint.

 

“In the morning,” Fury added. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

 

Later that night, curled under a layer of quilts, Clint dreamed.

 

_His feet pounded the packed earth as he ran, howls so close that exhales stirred his hair. Rounding a bend in the trail, he skidded to a halt; the other Clint blocked the path, bow strung and arrow drawn._

 

_“Get down!”_

 

_Clint dropped to the ground, the arrow whizzing through the space his chest had been. Rolling to look behind, he saw Rumlow stagger and fall, shaft right through his heart._

 

_“Get up, boy, and face your punishment like a man.”_

 

_Harold Barton’s hands grasped Clint’s arms, yanking him upright then his father jerked, arrow head spearing through his throat. Blood splattered, hot and bright in the shadows of the night, decorating Clint’s skin in patterns as the drops ran down his chest._

 

_“It’s time.”_

 

_Blinded by the bonfire, Clint didn’t see whose hands took hold of him, spinning him into the dancers, faces behind masks, the beat vibrating through the ground to catch him. He fought free of the tethers that tried to bind him; pushing his way out of the crowd, he stumbled to the edge of the dark night._

 

_“All you have to do is change the song.”_

 

_Wanda Maximoff, long dark hair a curtain that splintered the light from the fire as she leaned over him. Her brother, bow flying across fiddle strings, looked down, a quirk of a smile on his face; he slowed the tempo, began a new tune._

 

_“Mornie utulie, believe and you will find your way, mornie alantie, a promise lives within you now.” **[1]**_

 

_They waited on horses, just beyond the reach of the music, a flank of riders, spread out in a semicircle At the center, the antlered man who wasn’t a man, eyes like an owl. Clint walked along the curve, registering the grim faces of men with no hope._

 

_“We made our choice.”_

 

_Cain’s skin was pale, his eyes dull and dark, a ring of bruises around his neck. His horse snorted and pawed the earth, anxious to start the hunt. The other two men, gaping wounds and all, stared lifelessly at Clint as the dogs surrounded him, sniffing his legs and brushing their scents upon his leather pants._

 

_“Do you know who you are?”_

 

_The antlered man spoke for the first time, his deep voice boomed above the music; dancers scattered with silent screams, running off into the forest._

 

_“No.”_

 

_Clint admitted it, speaking aloud his deepest doubt._

 

_“You will. Or you’ll die.”_

 

_The hunt leaped into action, streaming by Clint as they raced after the retreating forms, leaving him standing by the stone. Wind whipped around him and he reached out, touching his hand to the surface; warm and pulsing, the stone drew him closer. Words and letters snaked between his fingers, circling up his arm and onto his body. Red rivulets of blood curved into indentations scored along the flat side, seeping out of the slashes along Rumlow’s arms. His wide eyes, glazed with finality, stared at nothing, body laid across the top of the stone._

 

_“Death isn’t the end.”_

 

_Phil’s hands framed his face, Clint’s back against the stone, his legs wrapped around Phil’s waist as Phil thrust inside of him. Blood covered them both, their bodies the offering as they joined together. The fire sent sparks floating into the night and Clint tilted his face up, bathing in the moonlight, floating out of his skin. Then a strangled cry ripped him back; an arrow protruded from Phil’s chest, sharp tip serrated and black._

 

_“Phil.” Clint cradled him in his arms. The music swelled and Wanda’s voice came from all around._

 

_It's a thin line that leads us_

_and keeps a man from shame_

_and dark clouds quickly gather_

_along the way he came._

_There's fear out on the mountain_

_and death out on the plain._

_There's heartbreak and heartache_

_in the shadow of the flame. **[2]**_

 

“Phil.” Clint sat up in bed. The sun was just beginning to rise, a reddish hue flooding under the blinds. A wet tongue bathed Clint’s face, a dog’s body warm and wiggling, a soft yip in his ear; Riley snuggled closer, wrapping around Clint as he struggled to breathe.

 

“Hey.” Sam leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed over his t-shirt, a pair of army sleep pants covering his legs. “Bad dream?”

 

“Oh, God.” Clint buried his head in his hands. “I can’t keep going on like this.”

 

“Come on downstairs and let me fix a pot of coffee; neither one of us is going back to sleep,” Sam said. “And if you feel like it, you can tell me what’s going on. It’s time.”

 

Time to make a choice. Run or stay and fight. Problem was, Clint had never been good at staying.

* * *

“You know what the dream means, don’t you?” Sam asked, topping off his cup.

 

“Is that something they teach you in the military? Dream interpretation?” Clint ate the last of his cold slice of pizza; a full stomach went a long way to settling him. “Yeah, I get it. I think that I’m the cause of Phil’s troubles. That I bring danger to everyone.”

 

“That’s part of it. But you also need to face what you’re running from; no matter how far you go, the Hunt can find you.” Sam used the last of the pot to fill Clint’s mug.   


“Wherever you go, there you are,” Clint replied.

 

“Buckaroo Bonzai fan. I should have known.” Sitting back down, Sam spooned sugar in his cup. “But I’m not wrong; I can’t read minds or anything, but I know when something clicks into place. Like you showing up at the pub; bringing you here was the right thing to do.”

 

“No wonder you and Steve get along so well. Right and wrong; hell, I don’t think I know the difference anymore.”

 

“Sure you do. You protected Kate from Rumlow, jumped in to help Peggy, are fixing my house … you’re a good man, Clint Barton. You do the right thing,” Sam said confidently..

 

“Yeah, well, speaking of the house, I’m going to get an early start so I can finish before I head into work. You going to carve the ward symbols before you leave?” Clint pushed away from the table, gathering up the empty container and his cup. “I might even have time to measure the roof and do the math to see how much it would cost to replace sections or the whole. I’ll add the garage roof into the calculations; easiest to do both at the same time.”

 

“Abrupt change of subject, but yes I’ll get the wards done as soon as I can. The VA meeting is at ten; I’ve got plenty of time. Still I’m not forgetting this conversation,” Sam warned. “Been a long time since I adopted a stray … Riley was the last one … but I know how to be patient.”

 

By eleven a.m., Clint had the windows done, a rough estimate for roof, and had even inspected the garage building to make a list of needed repairs;  he drove his bike into town, using his phone’s GPS to find Steve’s storefront, a pretty little church painted a warm amber and beige color scheme. Inside, the cathedral ceiling added height to the main area, the two wings housing more display space. Light filtered through stained glass windows, casting the paintings and artwork with a spectrum of color. Delicate clay lace hung on invisible wires, spinning with the least amount of breeze; bronze and copper beads and lengths tinkled as they bounced off one another, a delicate rain of sound.

 

The man himself was at the big rectangular case that served as both jewelry housing and a check out; he was happy to take Clint to the back room, a closed off space with metal shelving units and filing cabinets. Clint was glad he hadn’t bothered to shower before dropping by; he ended up crawling through the small opening in the old rock foundation and wiggling his way to the specific spot, checking the supporting beams from below. Over half the problems were solved with wooden wedges hammered between beam and plank, but there were three boards that needed replacing. He left Steve with clear instructions on what to get at the lumber yard and told him to call when he had the space cleared out. He promised to write up a bill and he was certain Steve would bug him until he did. A bit of money in his pocket wouldn’t hurt; he was due to get his first paycheck on Friday from Peggy. Clint could take stock then on his financial situation.

 

Two messages had come through from Phil; the first in the morning saying Phil was fine and going to be busy. The second arrived in reply to Clint’s text that he was about to get in the shower -- picture of a sweaty arm covered in sawdust and mud to prove he’d been working attached. It was a simple “damn.”  He got to work on time, remembered his hat to shade what was now spectacular purple and green spots on his face, and jumped right in, ferrying drinks to the tables since Kate was the sole waitress for the next hour.

 

He closed up, took home an extra helping or two of venison stew, and didn’t dawdle between bike and back door. Sam was still up, watching a movie on FX that he’d seen twelve times already because, as he told Clint, he’d still never seen the last twenty minutes of the thing. Phil’s text had told him to call no matter what the time, so he waited until he was bed; Phil answered on the second ring. “Let me call you right back,” he said. “I need to find a more private location.”

 

Good to his word, Phil’s number popped up in less than two minutes. “Hey,” Clint answered. “You not alone, I take it?”

 

“Hardly a minute to myself all day,” Phil replied. Clint heard creaking and a sigh. “I’m not as young as I used to be; all nighters wear me out.”

 

“Poor thing.” Clint imagined Phil sitting on the bed they’d shared, the sheets crumpled up and pillows with indentations. “I worked all day myself.”

 

“You sent me that picture right in the middle of class. Talk about hot and bothered.” This time the creak was louder, bed springs shifting under Phil’s body. “By the way, were you somewhere underground around lunch time?”

 

“I was at Steve’s store, crawling around the foundation. Did he tell you?” Clint asked.

 

“Actually, the effects from the other night are still lingering. I could smell the dirt and sweat, sensed the enclosed space.”

 

“Huh.” Clint tucked the phone between his ear and the pillow, rolling onto his side. “Maybe it’s the same as when Charles magnifies my sight. I .. the other me … magnified the connection?”

 

“Plausible explanation. We could test the hypothesis.” Phil chuckled. “Let’s see if I can sense what you’re doing right now.”

 

“Ah.” Clint got it. Never let it be said he wasn’t up for a late night bout of phone sex. Running his hand along the waistband of his sleep pants, he brushed against the line of his cock. “This is a booty call.”

 

“I missed two showers; I can be forgiven for feeling a little disappointed.” Phil’s voice changed as he put his phone on speaker. “Touch yourself for me.”

 

“Can’t you feel it?” Clint dragged his other hand up under his t-shirt, rubbing his nipple, one of his sensitive spots. “You like that?”

 

“Oh.” Phil exhaled. “I may or may not really like nipple play. Always thought of having a tattoo done around one, but …” he paused to suck in a breath as Clint tweaked himself, “... I’d probably make a fool out of myself and come in the middle of it.”

 

“But think about a nice design that I can trace with my tongue. I’ll be sure and not shave for a day, so I have some stubble to drag over it.” Clint was heating up as he closed his eyes. “Take a nice long time about it, make ‘em red and raw from all the attention.”

 

“Yes,” Phil murmured. “Soon. Tomorrow? No, damn it, I’ve got classes and I promised Nick … Thursday night, come hell or high water, you’re going to be in my bed.”

 

“Ummmm,” Clint agreed. He squeezed his cock through the cotton then slipped his hand inside. “Bed is good. Table was good. Against a tree would be nice. In a bed of clover under the stars.” He spread pre-come in his palm and began to stroke himself. “Oh, motorcycle. You ever been fucked on a motorcycle? With the engine running? Takes some balance, but, damn, the vibration is amazing.”

 

“Jesus, Clint.” Phil groaned the words. “You always twist so hard? That’s good, I like it that way.”

 

“You can really feel that?” Clint asked. “How about this?” He reached up and rubbed along his shoulder, over the section where he’d marked Phil. A jolt raced along his neck as he pressed harder on the muscle.

 

“Fuck.” The word burst out of the phone. “That’s so … do it again.”

 

Clint did, feeling the same pleasure as if Phil’s fingers were inside of him, massaging his prostate. He moaned, quickened his strokes and repeated the movement. In no time, groans and sighs were the only conversation. Clint pushed his pants down below his hips, arched his back and came hard, jerking his cock until he was too sensitive to touch.

 

“Phil, did you …”

 

“All over myself.” Phil sighed. “Nick is just going to have to deal with clean up time.” He chuckled, low and content. “Wow. That was much better than dream sex. Although, I will get you underneath me soon. Very soon.”

 

“Excuse me, but who says I’m going to bottom? I seem to remember you enjoying being bent over the table quite a bit.” Clint rolled onto his back,.

 

“Variety is the spice of life,” Phil came back with. “Look, I’ve got to go. Things are dicey right now; Erik’s not very welcoming and Nick has to stick his two cents in. I’m trying to keep them from each other’s throats. I’ve got a few minutes in the morning if you want to meet at Coffee and Company.”

 

“Sure. Send me a text with the time and I’ll be there.” Clint promised. “Go placate the big boss. I’m going to sleep now.”

 

“Good night,” Phil said. “Dream of me with light and goodness.”

 

Clint lay for a long time, phone still in his hand, before he got up; Riley, unhappy being left on the other side of closed door, followed him into the bathroom, not leaving his heels until Clint crawled back beneath the covers. Jumping up, Riley settled himself along Clint’s side, head laying on Clint’s hip, close enough for fingers to scratch behind his ears. Eyes glittered in the dim light of the room, watching both door and window, on guard as Clint finally fell asleep.  And he did dream, the bonfire, the woods … he ran with the hounds, not from them. They nudged him down paths, cutting him off and changing his direction when shadows loomed before him. Phil waited at the stone circle, and time slowed as they made love under the stars.

 

In the morning, they managed a cup of black bear blend and a chocolate glazed donut from the Donut Friar, sitting outside in the crisp autumn air. Distracted by Phil’s boots, jeans, and plaid shirt, Clint was content to just sit and enjoy the moment. Off to lead a hike along the RIch Mountain Trail, Phil had to get an early start; he gave Clint keys to his house and, after Phil climbed in his truck, Clint drove out and let himself in to check the master bath shower. What he found made him angry on Phil’s behalf -- regular drywall instead of cement backer board, no waterproof membranes and the wrong kind of thinset. The tile was basic, a generic beige. He spent the next few hours taking down what little had already been done then made a note to talk to Steve about local tile makers; with so many artists in the area, why settle for some bland stonework?

 

He worked from twelve to six, coming back to Sam’s house and determining to spend a quiet evening. Heating up yesterday’s stew, he settled on the couch with Riley curled up at his feet and watched a marathon of Ghost Hunters episodes for no reason other than to make fun of the “did you hear that?” montage. A long hot bath with more of Phil’s epsom salts relaxed him and he turned in early, catching up on sleep he’d missed the last few nights. He dreamed of bows and quivers full of arrows, hunting trips with Sam and Steve, a big mixed breed dog that flopped on a sagging sofa and begged pizza with sad eyes. A steamy shower with celtic patterns on the wall, water soaked skin and soft kisses. Motorcycle wheels eating up the road, and horses hooves galloping over the earth. Waking early, feeling refreshed, he remembered his meeting with Fury and decided what the hell, he’d deal with it when it happened.

 

Another day shift meant he caught the lunch time crowd of tourists who wandered their way or looked them up on line. Thursdays were the beginning of the weekend for the park and the resort areas as well delivery day from the distributors. Taking care of Riley so Sam could sleep late, Clint arrived ten minutes before the truck, propping open the back door. Cases were unloaded, checked against the order, then stacked in the store room. As he carried in the last two boxes of Stoli, he saw Natasha leaning against the wall, half blocking the hall; she watched as he brushed past her and put the boxes in their place.

 

“If you want to talk,” Clint said, “you’ll have to come to the bar. I need to stock the cooler.”

 

“Tell me which case to grab and I’ll carry it out for you,” she offered.

 

He started on the ice bin, lining the most popular bottled brews on the bottom, covering them with ice, and adding layers until it was almost full before he sat them up and mounded even more to keep the whole thing cold. The standing cooler kept the craft brews and ciders, plus some energy drinks and assorted other cans and bottles. He worked methodically, giving the woman the first shot in what was sure to be an interrogation, no matter how she worded her questions.

 

“It’s not easy,” she led with, “finding out you’re not who you thought you were.”

 

So that was her play, the friendly outsider he could talk to. Instead, he shrugged and said, “Sounds like teenage angst to me.”

 

Sitting on a stool, watching him work, she cocked her head and looked at him. “It was a cheesy line, I admit.  Still true though, especially for those of us who weren’t raised in the traditions. Finding out one day that your mother didn’t just dump you at an orphanage and leave can be upsetting.”

 

“Ah, this is the sharing portion of the conversation?” Clint gave her his most charming grin. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine? ‘Cause if it is, I have to tell you that I’m pretty exclusively into my type of equipment.”

 

She chuckled, relaxing her shoulders and dropping her weight onto her forearms, glancing over the bar to see what he was doing. “You got an Abbot? Maybe if I had a bottle of beer to swig from I could get you to confide in me.”

 

“We’ve got Abbot on draft,” Clint told her. “I’ll pull you a pint.”

 

“Oh, you’re good.” She smiled at him. “Now I’m starting to worry about Phil. He’s a good friend; if anything were to happen to hurt him …”

 

“The shovel speech? Wow, I’m flattered you think I could pull the wool over Phil’s eyes.” Clint was actually enjoying the back and forth banter. “He’s pretty savvy, but for what it’s worth, I’ve been pretty straightforward with him.”

 

“He know you don’t plan on staying around?” She took the full glass and sipped, tilting it up.

 

“Yep. Truth in advertising, that’s me.”  He finished the cooler and grabbed the tray of clean glasses to put away.

 

“And what’s going to happen if you man up and decide you fit here?” she asked. “It can happen, you know.”

 

“Because it happened to you?” Clint raised an eyebrow. “Look, Phil’s a big boy; I’m sure he can handle whatever comes along.”

 

“True.” She drank more beer; Clint continued stocking the bar, letting the silence spin out. “Okay, here’s the rub. Fury’s going to get to the bottom of things and something tells me he’s going to find you there.” She waited a beat before continuing. “This is usually the point where you assert your innocence.”

 

“Oh, sorry. Missed my cue.” Clint stopped and held up his hands. “Honest, officer, I’m innocent, I swear.”

 

“Very funny, Barton.” Her lips quirked up at the edges. “But I’m immune to charm, so save it for someone else. I know a fighter when I see one and, for some reason, I don’t want to see the Hunt chase you to ground.”

 

Clint stepped back and let his sight take over. _Gunmetal grey, reflecting light, and sparks of blue around the edges -- Natasha Romanova’s aura was bright and strong. Phil’s was layers upon layers, built over time. Natasha’s was a fine work of art with a permanent glow. Between one blink and the next, she changed; silver armor, long tattered cloak, wickedly thin swords and gleaming green eyes, she_[ _was a medieval warrior priestess_](http://static1.squarespace.com/static/51b3dc8ee4b051b96ceb10de/t/53b0d1e7e4b017d034c89225/1404096999404/the_avengers___black_widow_by_thedurrrrian-d54t4vy.jpg) _in all her power._

 

“Get a good look?” She reached out two fingers and gently touched the back of Clint’s hand.  “Turnabout’s fair play.”

 

The world changed in an instant.

 

_A carrion soared overhead, black wings extended, raucous cry carried on the wind. Around Clint, a battle raged, the clang of swords and cries of warriors. A banner was raised, red star on a white background, fighters rallying around a shining sword held aloft by a silver arm. Bucky’s hair was long, held back by a leather band; he shouted and they surged forward into the mass of twisted bodies in black robes. Light reflected off Steve’s armor, his shield held high; Peggy beside him, dressed in leathers, short swords dancing in her hands. Sam, feathered cloak fluttering behind him, Sif in full battle gear. Darcy in browns and greens beside Kate, bow drawn, firing at the mass that swarmed over the hill. Even pregnant Jane, glowing in a flowing blue dress, her husband Thor, hammer raised as he charged. Scott Summers, the police chief, his wife Jean, her friend Oro were there. And so were Charles and Eric, standing on a rise of ground, one in red, the other in a blue robe, arms raised, weaving intricate symbols in the air._

 

_“As ever it was and will be. Life is the battle, death the only end.” Blood covered hands, her weapons stained from the fight, Natasha looked up at him. “We don’t have a choice about the hand life deals us, but we can decide what we do with it.”_

 

_The bow felt good in his hand, his horse anxious to join the battle. Dogs barked, dancing on the ground, ready to follow his lead. His blood sang with the thrill of the hunt, the need to chase down the villains. Without thought, he drew an arrow and felled a cloaked figure in Bucky’s blind spot._

 

_“Question is, are you worthy of him?” Natasha asked, turning her head._

 

_Phil fought on a front of his own, a whirl of quarterstaff and flashes of magic. Muscles bunched along his back, tattoos illuminated with power. A surge of lust -- for battle, for sex, for Phil -- and Clint’s other self charged forward, taking the reins and urging the horse on. Drawn to Phil’s side, he rode through the shifting lines, dogs clearing a path; he sensed the evil in all of them, the thirst to cause pain and they ran, terrified by the sound of howls and a relentless rain of arrows._

 

“No, I’m not,” Clint said, pulling his hand away and stepping out of reach behind the bar.

 

She stared, green eyes wide, breathing quickly, taken aback by what she’d seen. Standing, she huffed then collected herself behind her controlled mask. “You and I are going to have a long conversation when this is over. Welcome to the family, Clint Barton. I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

 

 

 

[1] From Enya’s “May It Be.” The two lines in Elvish are “Darkness has come” and “Darkness has fallen”

[2] “This Love Will Carry” an old Irish song. See Dougie MacLean’s[ version here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2p16cu_1vp0)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coffee & Company and the Donut Friar are both in a little shopping area off of the Parkway called The Village. There's some lovely shops off the street and back little winding cobblestone paths. Big Daddy's has good pizza too. 
> 
> I blatantly stole the title Hand from Game of Thrones. Sept is a title often used for high offices in religions; Fury is Erik's boss and Natasha is his enforcer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot dogs, milkshakes, and a tense meeting lead to a night of passion. Clint just might be getting in too deep to ever get out.

“You’ve got to try the Moonshine Dog,” Fury told Clint as they perused the menu. “Best damn dog I’ve ever had.”

 

Clint had thought they were going to stay at the Pub for this meeting, but here they were at a tiny out-of-the-way place close to the high school called Smoky Mountain Shakes & Dawgs. With only eight tables in the whole place, the small restaurant boasted ratings better than the fancier places. From the food that was being demolished by a family of four nearby, Clint assumed the ratings were well earned.

 

“I prefer the more classic Crispy Onion Chili Cheese Dog,” Phil said. “And a strawberry milkshake.”

 

Natasha ordered a Hillbilly Surf-n-turf with a chocolate milkshake; Clint went with a Southern Fried Dog and a chocolate peanut butter shake. Grabbing a table in the back, Fury set a stone in the middle, a symbol carved in the top.

 

“A rune stone,” Phil explained. “It will allow us to talk without being overheard.”

 

“Ah, a cone of silence.” Clint smiled. “Let’s hope this one actually works.”

 

“Would you believe,” Natasha said, “Chuck Norris and a bb gun?”

 

He grinned at her, forgetting for a moment what he was there for. “A fellow connoisseur of fine comedy, I see.”

 

“I wanted to be Agent 99 when I grew up; I  used to watch the reruns to learn English. Surprised me that everyone didn’t speak with a nasally accent.” She took the white styrofoam cup the waitress handed her. “That and the old Batman series, the one with Adam West.”

 

“Oh, I loved that show. Burt Ward’s Robin made me realize I was gay.” Clint sipped his shake; thick rich ice cream, creamy peanut butter all mixed perfectly together. “Complete camp, that’s what it was.”

 

The door opened, an old-fashioned bell ringing, and Clint’s hair stood on end; Erik Lensherr walked in and the space shrank around him. His pull was magnetic; all eyes turned his way as he walked to the counter, his jeans snug on his hips and his worn brown leather bomber jacket fitted to his frame.

 

“The usual, Marie,” he told the woman behind the counter, digging out a twenty from his pocket. “And add some extra peppers on top, if you would.”

 

“Sure think, Erik,” she replied, a blush staining her cheeks. “I’ll get your shake right out.”

 

He strolled to the table, pulling up a chair and wedging himself in between Fury and Phil, positioning himself across from Clint. “Sorry I’m late. Conference call ran over. Good choice of a location; Marie and Joe make the best hot dogs in the county.”

 

“I don’t remember inviting you,” Fury said, a scowl marring his face. “This is just a fact finding interview …”

 

“And I have the right to ask questions. Isn’t that right, Phil?” Erik tossed out. “I’m simply exercising that option.”

 

“True,” Phil replied. “But it’s considered a biased recitation if the aggrieved party feels coerced or threatened.”

 

“Am I threatening you, Barton? You afraid to have me here?” Lensherr’s eyes settled on Clint; the wall inside him trembled with anger.

 

“Now look here, Erik, it’s my job to decide …” Fury began.

 

Clint cut him off. “It’s fine. I’ve got some questions of my own for the Grand Poobah; as the ‘aggrieved’ party, I’d like some answers. He can stay.”

 

Lensherr’s lips quirked up at the corners; Natasha flat out smiled at him. Fury eyed him then spoke. “You’re a pain-in-the-ass, aren’t you, Barton?”

 

“Every damn day,” Clint replied. Phil clasped his hand over Clint’s right there on the table in full view. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

 

“The beginning it is. Tell us about the first time you met Brock Rumlow,” Fury said.

 

It was easy to tell the truth and not the whole truth. Rumlow had been a son-of-a-bitch from the first moment, his own words and actions indicting himself. Clint went through the way Rumlow talked to Darcy then the suggestive threats he made to Kate and how Clint stepped between them. He matter-of-factly told the story of Rumlow’s attack, carefully keeping to just the facts and not a word about the other part of himself. Lensherr flinched when he heard that Rumlow attacked Clint from behind and then threatened to rape and kill Clint; when Phil added what he’d heard and witnessed, Erik’s mouth set in a hard line.

 

Talking through the kidnapping was harder, a tightrope between his fuzzy memories and the violence of the night. He could only use the excuse of the drug so much before he sounded like a politician called before congress, so he navigated somewhere in the middle. They let him get all the way to the end of the tale without any interruptions. Then the questions started, Fury taking the lead; he made Clint go over it all again, teasing out details. Phil added a few view specifics of his own at relevant points, but mostly let Clint answer.

 

Their food came; they ate as they talked, and when Clint got through it a second time, Lensherr shifted back in his chair, taking a long sip of his pineapple shake. “What I want to know is exactly how you managed to take down three initiates in less than two minutes. Allerdyce saw the whole thing; despite being drugged, he said you moved faster than anything he’d ever seen.”

 

“You want a blow-by-blow or just an overview? ‘Cause I can do either.” Clint mirrored Lensherr, laying an arm across the back of Phil’s chair. “Short answer? Adrenaline, training, and a shit load of terror. Amazing what you can do when you’re afraid for your life.”

 

“Training?” Lensherr asked. “What kind of training?”

 

“Didn’t do your homework, Erik? Barton here’s a Marine Scout Sniper, one of the best. Rumlow decided to pick on someone who could fight back.” Fury took great pleasure at dropping that tidbit of information.

 

Lensherr’s gaze changed, a spark of interest igniting. “You are a man of many layers, Mr. Barton. I imagine you have a handy answer for how you knew John’s sin?”

 

“Aw, I just told him that to scare him. His reaction was to hide not attack; logically, I concluded he didn’t have a large role in Rumlow’s plan.” Clint knew how to lie convincingly; he’d lied to himself far too many times, justifying mistakes and closing his eyes to the truth. “So, let me ask you this, Archdruid of the Southeastern Appalachian Grove. You had a serial rapist as an initiate. Isn’t it your job to stop him?”

 

“It is. Mike will be given the right of inquisition and, if found guilty, a suitable punishment will be enforced.” Erik paused. “As one of the accusers, you can be present, if you wish.”

 

“Strange, though, that you didn’t know about Mike, or that Rumlow was able to round up a band of followers willing to go behind your back.” Clint sat his shake on the table. “What’s that old saying? As goes the King, so goes the Kingdom?”

 

Forearms came down on the table and the silverware vibrated as Lensherr leaned forward. “What exactly are you suggesting?” He practically growled, words coming from deep in his chest.

 

Clint shrugged, his point made. “Excuse me, but I’m the victim who wants to know why Rumlow was free and not on a plane out of the country like you said. I see two options, Erik; either you can’t control your people or you don’t want to.”

 

A stillness fell over the table, everyone collectively holding their breath to see Lensherr’s response.

 

“Be glad you’re just passing through, Barton.” Lensherr pushed back and stood up. “And that I recognize the trauma you’ve been through. Rein in your anger; I won’t give you a second chance.”

 

He left the restaurant, the glass door swinging closed behind him. Clint sighed and slumped in his chair, letting out the breath he’d been holding.

 

“Jesus, Barton, you’ve got balls of steel,” Fury said. “I think I like you.”

 

“That’s going to get you in trouble one day,” Natasha told him. “The whole Odysseus complex, shouting your name and drawing attention to yourself.”

 

“I find it pretty sexy.” Phil smiled, his eyes alight with desire. “But then I’ve always had a soft spot for those who tilt at windmills.  Let’s go home.”

 

“We still have the whole Wild Hunt thing to work out,”  Fury protested as Phil stood, tugging Clint up with him. “And I’m not satisfied with some of the details.”

 

“Tomorrow, Nick. You’ve had me chasing my tail for days. I’m taking the night … and the morning … off. Call me tomorrow afternoon.” Phil kept his hand wound around Clint’s bicep as they moved to the door.

 

“You came with us,” Fury said.

 

“I’ll give him a ride,” Clint replied, a slow spread of a smile on his face. “Dont’ worry.”

 

“Yeah, that’s not what I’m worried about,” Fury mumbled as they left.

 

Clint offered his helmet to Phil; he refused, waiting until Clint got on the bike to swing on behind. Hands slid around Clint’s waist and tucked inside his jacket. There was no way to not feel every inch of Phil’s thighs, the way his muscles moved as he shifted to keep his balance. Starting the engine, Clint backed out and gunned the motor, driving out of the parking lot.

 

The vibration rolled up through his thighs, rumbling against his palms; it soothed the other inside of him as much as Phil’s body tight against his own. Tires ate up the road, the headlight guiding their way along the winding two-lane road, trees rushing by. The forest parted before them, yellow line a tether to the future, disappearing in the darkness behind. The roar of the bike filled his ears and Phil’s cologne tickled his nose. In the corner of his eye, shadows darted, running parallel to them, an escort as they made their way to Phil’s house, dropping back as the turned into the driveway and came to a stop.

 

Neither of them spoke until they were inside, door closed and warded behind them. “I think I need a drink,” Phil said. He took a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet and sat out two tumblers. “Ice is in the fridge; I’ve got a few things to gather up. Will you pour?”

 

Clint clinked a few cubes into each glass. “I don’t think the Hunt is after me.”

 

“They could have had us on the road if they wanted to,” Phil agreed. He opened the cabinet and began putting items into a handwoven basket. Candles, three red and three white. An earthenware crock, jars of oil, a small leather pouch, and a few other things Clint didn’t see . As Clint poured the drinks, Phil took two bottles of water, some pears and a couple bars of chocolate.

 

“The last few dreams, they’ve been … it’s like the dogs were herding me places. I think they’re trying to tell me something.” Clint grabbed the liquor bottle.

 

“Sometimes, the best thing to do is let it play out, see where the dream takes you. We’re programmed to run, but that’s not always the answer.” Phil picked up the basket and his glass. “For tonight, let it go. You need to center yourself, get prepared for what’s coming … because we both know this is a long way from over. Come with me.”

 

“I still can’t make any promises.,” Clint said.

 

“I know. I don’t care.” Phil headed towards the stairs. “I want you and I’ll take you anyway I can get you.”

 

Closing his eyes, Clint didn’t need to reach far to know what the other wanted. “Phil.” He let out a noisy exhale and opened his eyes. “I want you too. Please know that.”

 

“Then get your ass upstairs and let me spread you out on my bed and pull you to pieces.”

 

No way he was going to turn down that request; didn’t matter what tomorrow brought, Clint had learned to seize the moments when they came. He’d let too many opportunities go by in the past to not follow Phil. A quick stop in the old-fashioned bath across the hall -- where there was an even bigger clawfoot tub -- and by the time Clint got into the room, Phil had placed the candles around the room. White ones on the end tables beside the bed and on either side of the door on a chair and a TV stand. Red ones on the dresser and the window, creating a circle around the room.

 

“Take these,” Phil said, handing him a small box of matches. “When I tell you, start with the one by the bed.”

 

“Is this some kind of ritual?” Clint smiled. “Pretty sure neither of us is going to get pregnant, magic or not.”

 

“Never tempt the Goddess; she might do it just to show you she can.” Phil struck a match. “Light it.”

 

As they touched the flames to the wicks, Phil said, “To the Lady Bridgit, we ask for healing in this house, a place of safety and comfort.”

 

They moved to the second candle, lighting it next. “To Bel, we ask for healing fire that centers us and calms our hearts.”

 

For the third, he said, “To Druanita, we ask for the heat of passion to burn away all doubts.”

 

Closing the door, he took the leather pouch and dribbled a pinch of the mixture inside along the door sill then did the same for the window. “Ylang Ylang, blue violet, Jacob’s Ladder, and just a touch of sugar. I suggest it for people who are highly stressed and need to calm themselves both mentally and physically. Also really great for couples with small children; helps make the bedroom a relaxing oasis. While I do this, sniff those two jars and see which one speaks to you.”

 

The blue one smelled like the ocean, sand beneath his toes and salty breeze mixed with coconut oil. He put the stopper back on it and picked up the green bottle. Before he even got it close to his nose, the smell drew him in, pine needles cracking beneath his feet, sweet cedar brushing against his skin, tart apples on his tongue, and bayberry clearing his senses.

 

“Guess that’s the one,” Phil said, taking the bottle from his fingers. Clint blinked, focusing. “You went away for a second.”

 

“I like being in the woods,” he said. “It’s  peaceful, even when it’s storming.”

 

“Nature has her own cathedrals to worship in.” Phil caught Clint’s wrist and reeled him closer. “The mountain and the dark and gloomy wood, their colors and their forms, are to me an appetite; a feeling and a love.”[1]

 

“And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,”[2] Clint replied. “A religion, indeed.”

 

Phil reached for Clint’s belt, unbuckling the leather and sliding it out of the loops, then he put his hands on Clint’s hips and walked him back to the edge of the bed. “Sit,” he said before he dropped to his knees on the floor.

 

“Yes, sir.” Clint’s lips quirked into a quick smile. “You’re in charge.”

 

“Did you know in many cultures, washing of the feet is an intimate act.” Phil unlaced Clint’s boots, tugging one then the other off as he spoke. “We run around barefoot or in flip flops here in America, get pedicures. But there’s something very relaxing about a foot massage.” Socks were next then he took the bottle of oil, put a few drops in his palm and began rubbing along the arch, concentric circles that released the scent into the room.

 

“Oh.” Clint tilted his head back and dragged in the aroma. “I used to have dirt between my toes all summer; mud, puddles, grass … didn’t matter, I ran everywhere without shoes.”

 

Fingers unbuttoned Clint’s jeans, took down the zipper and then pushed them down. Catching Clint’s underwear too, Phil waited until Clint lifted his hips up and then took them both all the way to the floor. “I had a habit of bringing home all sorts of things -- bugs, snakes, rocks, leaves, didn’t matter. I thought each one was special and unique.”

 

With a shiver as Phil’s hands slid up his chest, the hem of his henley rising up and over his head, Clint raised his arms. “There was this creek behind St. Margaret’s, down in a gully, with an overhang that had a sandy bottom. Had to wade through water to get inside and you couldn’t see it from the bank. I hid out there all the time, even kept an old Star Trek lunch box filled with my things tucked under some rocks in the back. I loved that cave; only time I was ever alone.”

 

Standing, Phil grabbed a towel that was folded on the chair and spread it out in the middle of the bed. “Face down to start,” he told Clint.

 

“I take it you’re in charge tonight?” Clint scooted back and laid down, tucking a pillow under his chin and turning his head to watch as Phil took off his shoes and shirt. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I just have a few things I want to do too.”

 

“I’ve got nowhere to be in the morning; we can sleep in and you can run through your to-do list.” Shimmying out of his jeans, Phil sat the basket within arm’s reach and crawled up on the bed. “I’ve been thinking about getting you in my bed; got a pretty detailed agenda of my own.”

 

“Mmmmm.” Clint wiggled when Phil’s oily hands began kneading at his calf muscles. “Have your way with me. I don’t mind.”

 

He hissed when Phil hit a knot, a remainder from Rumlow’s bat. “Take a breath,” Phil said. “When I tell you, let it out slowly.”

 

Filling his lungs, Clint bit his lip to keep from groaning when Phil’s thumb dug deep into the spot, applying a steady pressure. Then Phil gave him the word and Clint exhaled, a long eight counts, and Phil let go. Flexing his foot, Clint sighed in pleasure as the muscle gave, stretching out nicely.

 

“Oh, that’s good,” Clint mumbled, half-gone with the heady aroma of the oil and the endorphin rush of a deep tissue massage.

 

“Just relax,” Phil told him, moving up to his thigh. “That’s the idea.”

 

Closing his eyes, Clint floated as Phil continued to work, finishing one leg and working on the other. When Phil shifted one knee on the other side of Clint and began massaging his back, Clint’s cock stirred from the touch of Phil’s length sliding over the curve of Clint’s ass, back and forth as Phil moved. Then Phil hit a bad patch low on Clint’s left side, and it was inhale, hold and release as Phil broke up the knots that were giving Clint pain. All his senses mixed together -- the pain, the release, the slow burn of arousal -- and he was no longer on the bed, laying instead of soft moss, the candles now firelight, the ceiling the limbs of a cedar tree. When Phil’s thumbs traced his spine all the way down between his cheeks, rubbing over the puckered hole before pressing inside. He opened Clint up, slowly, thoroughly, making him squirm as his cock grew hard beneath him.

 

Finally, Phil leaned forward, kissing the skin beneath Clint’s ear, and whispered, “Turn over. I want to see your face when I’m inside you.”

 

His arms and legs felt limp, his whole body relaxed; rolling over took intense concentration, but he managed to do it. It was elegant; he kneed Phil in the stomach as he tried to get his head back on the pillow, and Phil laughed at his apology, pouring cold oil directly on Clint’s stomach in retaliation. Muscles clenched and Phil straddled him, deliberately letting Clint’s cock bump over his balls as he spread the oil over Clint’s chest.  With a moan, Clint lifted his hips, sliding up and back; Phil stroked his thumbs over Clint’s nipples, tweaking them into hard pebbles. The sensations were overwhelming: the smell of the woods, the jolt of Phil’s touch, the throb of his arousal, and the flicker of the candle.

 

“What was in the lunchbox?’ Phil asked, his face close to Clint’s.

 

“Lunchbox?” Clint had lost the thread of conversation about the time Phil pinched one nipple then the other.

 

“In the cave. What were your treasures?” Phil dropped a kiss along Clint’s jaw and ran his fingers behind Clint’s head, massaging the pressure points where his neck connected.

 

“Oh.” Lunchbox. Cave. Clint remembered. “A couple matchbox cars. A comic book. Some penny candy Mr. Wilcox used to give us for helping at the store. Pennies, an arrowhead, some rocks. I liked shells and rocks.”

 

Phil’s kisses trailed down his neck and his teeth grazed a nipple. “Which comic?”

 

“Um, I, oh.” He couldn’t focus on anything but the aching emptiness that needed filling inside of him and Phil biting down hard enough to leave a bruise. “Green Arrow. I liked … I took archery lessons … ah … and I liked his … oh, god … sassy mouth.”

 

“Captain America.” Phil’s thighs slid along Clint’s sides until their cocks lined up perfectly. “I collect ‘em. Still do.”

 

“Oh, fuck, Phil, I need you to …” Clint almost sobbed with relief as Phil sat up and picked up a condom packet. The other growled, a low vibration that rattled Clint’s bones, a possessive desire rising up inside of him. Climbing between Clint’s legs, Phil lifted Clint’s knees, and eased the tip of his cock past the tight muscle, pressing in slowly until he was a s far as he could go.

 

“Perfect,” Phil whispered, leaning forward onto his elbows. “You are fucking perfect.”

 

“Yes,” Clint breathed. Every bit of tension drained away; the wall shivered and cracked enough for the need to break free; Clint didn’t fight, didn’t care; Phil could handle the whole of him. All that mattered were the waves of pleasure that came every time Phil thrust back in at his measured rocking pace. No longer two Clints, he was Clint and Phil, joined and brought together by more than just a physical act. Not a race, their lovemaking was an all day hike, aiming for the highest peak. Phil shifted for a better angle and they reached the next plateau. Wrapping his arms around Clint’s waist, Phil rolled them up so he was sitting on his heels, Clint’s sitting on his lap, knees on the quilt.

 

“You offered me a ride,” Phil murmured against Clint’s collarbone. “Let me return the favor.”

 

Head dropping back, Clint groaned for an answer as Phil sank even deeper in this position. “Hold on,” Clint replied. “I’m damn good at riding.”

 

Bed springs squeaked, a rhythmic sound punctuated by their heavy breaths and low moans. Clint braced himself on Phil’s shoulders, fingers covering his mark and the tattoo; Phil worried Clint’s nipples with his mouth, keeping Clint upright in his arm as one hand slipped between them to stroke Clint’s cock.. Ink swirled, time stilled, the world outside of their protected circle a distant memory then they both reached the peak within seconds of each other, Clint’s muscles straining as he came.

 

Gently, Phil laid them back down, slipping out of Clint as he covered Clint’s body with his own. For a few long breaths, Clint drowned in Phil’s eyes, laying himself bare to the other’s gaze in a way he’d never done before. The he lifted his head and kissed Phil, a gentle brush of lips to lips, more intimate than any other touch.

 

With an exhale, Phil rolled onto his side next to Clint, propping himself up on an elbow. He ran a lazy hand down Clint’s arm, tracing the purple lines of his tattoo. “In case it escaped your attention,” he said, “that was some damn fine sex.”

 

A grin spread across Clint’s face. “I concur,” he said. “But I think further practice might improve the technique.”

 

“Gods, where did you come from?” Phil said with a laugh, his eyes sparkling. “You are perfect.”

 

“Hardly.” Clint’s grin faded. “I’m in serious trouble, aren’t I? With Lensherr and Rumlow and now Fury?”

 

“If it was just Erik, I’d say you’re fine. There’s no doubt Rumlow was the instigator. But Brock’s saying he’s the one who’s motivating the rebellion against Erik’s leadership, and he’s just not smart enough to do that. He’s a follower, a strong arm, but not the head of the operation.” Phil’s hand stilled, spread over Clint’s heart.

 

“So there’s another player on the board.” Clint had suspected that, or at least the other Clint had. “Someone’s manipulating Rumlow.”

 

“Someone. Something.” Phil sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “This area is a stronghold of the Tuatha de Dannan, the children of Danu; there are many powers that would love to see the Grove wither, not thrive.”

 

“Dagda’s one of them? I remember a story about some pigs and a magic harp. I think that was him.” Clint pushed up, plumped a pillow and put it behind his back.

 

“One pig always growing, the other roasting, along with an orchard always bearing fruit and a cauldron overflowing with food. The perfect Lord who could provide for his people.” Cleaning himself off first, Phil brought the water, pears and chocolate. “Hydrate. The massage will have released toxins in your system you need to flush out.”

 

“You trying to take care of me?” Clint asked, half-joking; he took the towel off the bed and cleaned himself up, throwing it in the corner when he was done..

 

“If you’ll let me, yes,” Phil answer. Unsure what to say in response, Clint propped a second pillow up and patted the bed beside him. Phil sat down and they covered their legs with the quilt. Cracking open one of the bottles, Clint drank down a quarter in one go before he took a pear, biting in the juicy fruit.

 

“Too bad you don’t have TV,” he said, changing the subject. “We could watch a movie in bed.”

 

“The bedroom is a sacred place; a TV in the living room will be enough.” Phil sipped his whiskey and opened one of the chocolate bars. “A nice big couch to snuggle in on cold evenings. That’s the plan.”

 

He offered Clint one of the squares; Clint gave Phil a bite of the pear. The dark chocolate and touch of salt balanced the sweetness of the fruit. They ate in silence for a few moments before Clint broached the subject again. “Any ideas about who called the Hunt and why?”

 

“No, and Nick’s unhappy about the lack of leads. His working assumption is that you’re the target,” Phil said. “If it’s not, we’ve got nothing.”

 

“I saw them, in my dream. Cain and the others. They were riding with the Hunt.”  Clint switched his water for the glass of whiskey he’d left on the side table.

 

“The riders of the hunt are alive when they’re given the choice to join.” Phil topped off Clint’s drink and his own. “It’s probably your subconscious dealing with events.”

 

“Probably,” Clint echoed, but that part of him that wanted justice didn’t believe it. “So, it’s still early and I don’t have to go to work until 3 tomorrow afternoon. What’s next on your to-do list?”

 

A slow sensual smile spread across Phil’s face.  “Well, two can fit in the tub, and I’ve got unlimited hot water” he said. “And that’s just for starters.”

 

 

[1] From William Wordsworth’s “Lines Composed a Few Miles from Tintern Abbey.” Druids would have been drawn to Wordsworth’s romantic ideals, in my opinion.

[2] From William Butler Yeats’ “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”  Hey, Clint reads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smoky Mountain Shakes & Dawgs is real and the hot dogs are damn good. Tiny place, hard to find. I made up the names of the owners, though, but if I ever run into Clint and Phil there, I'd probably faint. 
> 
> The Tuatha de Dannan are the first family of Celtic Mythology. Dagda was one of the kings; the story about the two pigs comes from the Mabinogin; wars were started when people tried to steal them. Other famous names include Brigid (yep, she pre-dates the Catholic St. Bridget of Ireland. Many folklorists believe the Church made her Christian because she had such a large following. Morrigan, Cu Chulainn, Danu ... all of them are part of the myths.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik passes punishment, a new threat emerges from the darkness, and the usual suspects hold a war council. Oh, and cupcakes. Yummy, sweet, messy, sexy cupcakes.
> 
> Warning: the punishment is drawn from Celtic stories and could be disturbing to some readers.

Clint shivered, the chill in the air raising goosebumps on his skin; a cold front had come through Sunday morning, dropping the average temperature over ten degrees. He should have worn his coat but he’d left it at Phil’s this morning, and they’d all left from the pub without time to swing by. The thermal henley he had on just wasn’t enough.

 

“You want a jacket?’ Bucky whispered, nudging Clint with his elbow. “Steve’s a furnace; he doesn’t really need his.”

 

“I’m fine.” Too wound up was what he was, but that was stating the obvious. Standing just under the eaves of a rowan tree, waiting for a formal ritual of excommunication, Clint was the odd man out. The others circled around the clearing, some Clint knew, others he only recognized, and still more he had never seen before. Steve and Sam were on one side of him, Bucky on the other.

 

In the week since he’d woken up in Phil’s bed … well, been woken up by some rather spectacular morning sex was a better way to put it … he’d been busy with work and having something akin to a real social life. As the inquiry carried on with Fury monopolizing Phil’s free time, Clint fell into an easy routine between his handyman jobs and bartending for Peggy. Sam’s garage walls were done, reinforced with new 2 x 4s and patched clapboard siding. The tin for the new roof was on order and would be in tomorrow. The floor in Steve’s back room didn’t squeak or given anymore and Clint had moved on to the leak in the patron bathroom that was staining one of the corners of the display area. And Phil’s shower had all new concrete backerboard installed with some lovely natural stone tile stacked on the floor, awaiting Phil’s pick of some decorative inserts.

 

In between the hammering and cutting, pouring drinks and serving tables, Clint had hung out with Sam and Steve and Bucky, even going to Gatlinburg one evening with Darcy. He’d drunk dialed Phil and shown up on his porch for an unforgettable welcome once Phil arrived. Most of the time, they saw each other only in snatched moments between their jobs and Phil’s work with Fury. Still, they managed to spend a couple nights in the same bed even if one of them had to get up early the next day. When Clint was with Phil, he dreamed of soft couches and laughter and mountain trails to be trod. And when Clint slept at Sam’s, he dozed off with his hand in Riley’s fur and ran with the dogs through the woods, dancing around the fire with his mother, and firing arrows by Natasha’s side.

 

After Lensherr called the Grove meeting yesterday, Phil had been completely tied up; Erik had asked Phil to stand as the official Attestant for the ritual and that involved lengthy preparation. Clint had been given the option of attending, but there was no way he wouldn’t be there to see what the judgement was. With the Hunt still roaming the area, Clint felt he had to go.

 

All around the clearing, the members of the Grove clustered, ready to witness the verdict. Somewhere Jane and her husband stood by Chief Summers and his wife; John, the survivor of that night, was positioned at the eastern point of the circle. Others spread out, forming a loose boundary, all in the shadows, leaving the open space of the moonlight drenched middle to the three standing figures and the two bound ones.

 

As leader, Erik, cloaked in a brown robe, stood in front of the stone, watching as Logan finished trussing up Rumlow, tying him to a flat rock nearby; half covered in the moss, the granite looked as if it had once been upright, but had long ago fallen over. Seeing it now, Clint realized it was the perfect size and placement.

 

At its foot, Phil stood over Mike, the rapist and murderer, who was on his knees, hands behind his back, head bowed and covered with a black hood, Phil’s face was impassive and he looked all the more warrior-like in his leather pants, chest painted with mystic symbols.Both prisoners were naked, bodies covered in bruises and a myriad of cuts. Despite it all, Brock was smiling, his eyes trained on Clint’s face.

 

“Phil told you want to expect?” Steve whispered, unwilling to break the uneasy silence with a loud voice.

 

“Yeah. He explained it.” In detail, preparing Clint as much as he could. “Trial over, this is the punishment stage.”

 

“And so we begin,” Erik announced, his voice easily reaching all ears. “If there are any here who have witness yet to bring, now is the time.”

 

Only the sound of crickets greeted his words so he continued. “The Grove is only as strong as the weakest tree; infection, if allowed to grow, will eat away at even the strongest wood. Evil must be excised, by fire, by ice, by wind, by storm, each to its own. And so do we come together to pass judgement upon these two, Michael Columbus and Brock Rumlow.”

 

Yanking off the hood, Phil let Mike take a breath before he lifted the length of wood he held in his hand and began to draw runes on the man’s back; sobbing, Mike begged for forgiveness, a jumble of words lost in his heaving cries. Stepping up beside Phil, Logan held Mike steady; more buff than the other two men, Logan’s biceps were covered in scrollwork tattoos that ran from shoulder to elbow on the outside of his arms. Across his muscular chest, a griffin reared, claws extended and mouth open in a roar.

 

“For the crime of rape and murder, you have been sentenced to the oldest of punishments: to experience the pain of your victims.” Erik walked to the kneeling man and placed his hand on his head. “Their memories are your memories, their trials your trials. For a period of one year, you will be subject to the fears and drives of a female.”

 

As he spoke, the air became charged with electricity, a wind blowing in from all directions, circling the naked figure. Skin began to melt, hair growing longer, spreading across his body. Hands turned to paws, nose to snout, a tail emerging. A yellow labrador retriever shook her head and stared up at Erik with pleading eyes.

 

“Who sponsored this man?’ Erik asked, turning his gaze to the gathering of watchers.

 

“I did.”  Emma Frost stepped out of the shadows; it was the first time Clint had seen her since the night she left the pub. “I accept responsibility.”

 

“Listen to your master,” Erik told the dog. “Obey, learn, and we will evaluate your heart again in a year.”

 

Whining, the dog buried her nose in her paws, clearly not happy with the turn of events. Emma crossed the clearing, taking out a leash and slipping it around the dog’s neck. “Let’s go. Training starts tomorrow with a visit to the vet.”

 

“That’s not too bad,” Clint whispered to Sam.

 

“Don’t be sure,” Sam replied in the same sotto voice. “Emma breeds dogs.”

 

“Oh.” Okay, maybe that was a good punishment.

 

“As to the crime of fomenting rebellion and disobeying Grove teachings,” Erik said. He nodded to Phil; the wooden brush dipped into a pot of red dye and he drew a line straight from Rumlow’s collarbone down to his belly button, bisecting it with three horizontal lines that tilted up to the left. “You are marked as a fallen one. We cast you out into the void, by unanimous vote.”

 

He turned to Clint. “As victim of Rumlow’s crimes, you have the first choice.  Which do you wish, first, middle or last?”

 

Mouth gone dry, Clint answered. “I’ll take the killing shot.”

 

Something akin to respect flashed in Erik’s eyes. “So shall it be. Sept, the next choice is yours.”

 

“My Hand will take the first,” Fury replied.

 

“Then we shall begin. One blow from each of those you sought to wrong,” Erik said.

 

He and Phil stepped away from the stone; Rumlow’s chin jerked up, his eyes burning as he watched Natasha stride forward. Her dagger caught the moonlight as she slashed across his chest, a cut that welled up with blood and spilled over. Next was Phil, given the second place as another aggrieved party; his blade was smaller but his cut was deeper, along the ridge of Rumlow’s hip bone. Erik then Charles then one-by-one each of the Grove took their turn. Few took pleasure in the strike -- Emma grinned at Rumlow and Scott Summers seemed satisfied -- but every single person participated, the harsh verdict dependent upon unanimity. Many of the cuts would be a death blow on their own, a sentence of slow bleed and long exhale of breath.

 

Rumlow took each one in silence, only an occasional grunt or loud breath. Each person he looked in the eye as if memorizing their faces to take with him into the next world. Finally, only Clint remained. He raised his bow, pulled back the string, and sighted the arrow.

 

“This isn’t over, boy,” Rumlow growled, his voice rattling, chest filled with blood. “Not by a long shot.”

 

The twang of the string was the only sound as Clint let go, arrow flying true and piercing Rumlow’s heart. Lowering the bow, Clint was surprised to see his fingers tremble; a weight pressed on his chest, heavy and unrelenting.

 

“I’ve got it, let go,” Steve said, his hand taking the bow. “You did good. Take a minute and remember how to breathe.”

 

“That which we do, we do together. That which we see, we see as one. As we go from this place, a part of us remains, roots sunk deep in the ground. Branches touch the heavens, but we are all grown from the same earth.” Erik raised his hands as he spoke. “May Gwydyon bless each member of the Grove.”

 

People began to move, gathering up their things and starting to leave. Clint’s feet felt frozen to the spot; he couldn’t take his eyes off of Brock’s body. He’d killed before, looking through the scope, taking the shot when he had it. That wasn’t the problem; an unease in his gut spun and tightened, a sense he was missing something important.

 

“Barton.” Warm hands took his, a gentle touch. “Clint.” Natasha’s green eyes were steady and sure. “It’s too easy. But we’ve bought some time to ferret out the truth.”

 

Her words released the tension that compressed his lungs. “I want to help,” he said. “I’m in this now; I intend to chase it down to its end.”

 

“Count us in,” Sam offered. “Between us, we can get things done.”

 

“Whatever’s going on, it affects all of us,” Steve agreed. “People need protecting.”

 

“And bird brain here needs back up.” Bucky carefully didn’t look at Natasha. “Dude doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.”

 

“You’ve made some friends, Cwtch.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ve got to go; we’ll meet tomorrow …”

 

“Dinner at my place,” Steve injected. “Peggy will want to be part of the planning. We’ll have your favorite pie; Bucky can make plenty for everyone.”

 

“Yeah, no, I can’t …” Bucky started to say.

 

“Oh, man up.” Clint rolled his eyes.”I don’t know what happened between you two, but running from it won’t solve it. Trust me on that one.”

 

“Look, just because you’re having sex on a regular basis …” Bucky said.

 

“Speak the truth, man,” Sam interrupted. “It is getting old and we need you on this. Suck it up and show up.”

 

“Why do I even?” Bucky shook his head. “Fine, I’ll be there. But you’d better have Magner’s if I’m coming.”

 

Every hair on Clint’s head stood up, a charge of electricity running down his neck. He snapped his head up, turning towards the other side of the clearing; ever so faintly, his ears picked up movement through the trees, leaves rattling as something crashed through the trees. His senses went on high alert; grabbing the quiver of arrows off the ground, he slung it over his back.

 

“What is it?” Natasha’s intensity fairly vibrated across the space between them.

 

“Something’s coming.” A whiff of stale air, old and moldy. The temperature dropped as a wind whipped past them. “Something dangerous.”

 

“Get everyone inside the circle,” Bucky told Sam and Steve. “The stone should protect us from the Hunt if we bolster the wards.”

 

Taking his bow from Steve, Clint said, “It’s not the Hunt.”

 

A loud cracking sound was followed by bushes trembling and the ground shaking. A number of people dashed across the clearing towards the stone. Sam and Steve took off at a run in opposite directions, shouting instructions as they went. Grabbing an arrow, Clint notched it and stepped out of the trees, aiming in the direction of the noise.

 

The echo of a terrified scream reached his ears; Clint let it cut through his head, never taking his eyes off the forest. Jane came out of the shadows, Thor at her side, helping her over the uneven ground. Behind them, one of the pub regulars by the name of Roger came running; in a blink, a dark arm whipped out, slashing through his chest. He fell, blood bubbling up from the gaping hole.

 

“What the hell was that?” Bucky asked.

 

Clint didn’t pause to answer; he moved forward, drawing even with Erik and Phil. Whatever it was, it was approaching faster than Clint could track, darting around the tree line, never coming into view. More screams, more people stumbling into the moonlight for the relative safety of the growing group. In the corner of his vision, Logan stalked in the same direction, head raised, sniffing the air, daggers in his his hands.

 

A chant began, Erik leading, the others following; Clint felt a stirring of power, his other responding to the magic. His senses expanded and he tracked auras in the woods until he found a large absence of any light, continually shifting in shape. “Got a bead on it,” he said to Phil and Logan. “But it’s too damn fast to hit.”

 

With a cry, Jane stumbled and went down, cradling her swollen stomach as her foot sank into a hole. In an instance, a black mass hurtled towards her; Thor swung at it, some sort of weapon in his hand. Clint loosed his arrow, hitting the center of the creature; the shaft flew right through, biting into a tree on the far side. Throwing himself over his wife’s body, Thor shouted a challenge at the thing as it closed in on the two of them.

 

There wasn’t time for another shot; Phil wouldn’t close the distance despite already being in motion and Logan’s leap was going to fall short. The thing attacked, forming arms and legs, targeting the two people on the ground. Anger flashed through Clint and he shouted, a wordless roar of frustration that rang through the night.

 

Howls answered, too many to count; shadowy black dogs poured out of the forest, racing towards the creature, all snapping teeth and sharp claws. They tore into the blackness, worrying it with their mouths, shredding it to pieces and flinging them across the ground. The pockets of dark oozed back together -- arms, legs, torso, head, the form of a man -- and then flitting off to the west, the hounds following in close pursuit. A bellow of pain, yips of agony, and more baying reverberated as the chase drove off to the North.

 

“I’m going after it,” Logan declared. “See where the hell this thing goes to ground.”  He disappeared in the forest, already on the trail.

 

Phil helped Thor get Jane on her feet. “I’m fine,” she assured her worried husband. “Twisted ankle, maybe a few bruises, that’s all.”

 

“I will find this creature and destroy it,” Thor said.

 

“First, take me home; I can’t walk out of here.” Jane held out her arms; Thor swept her up. “Call Darcy to come over and stay with me.”

 

“Of course.” Thor nodded to Phil. “Call me when you are ready to send out a hunting party.”

 

“We will,” Phil assured him.

 

“We’ve got three wounded that need attention,” Scott said, approaching them. “Jean’s searching for others.”

 

“Roger?” Phil looked over to see Oro Monroe on her knees, her hand on the fallen man’s neck. She shook her head. “Damn.”

 

“What the fuck was that?” Bucky was angry, his eyes steely glints of grey.

 

“A diversion.” Natasha spoke from behind them, they all turned. “A damn good one too.”  She nodded to the stone where ropes were coiled on the ground.

 

Brock Rumlow’s body was missing.

* * *

 

Clint didn’t crawl into bed until an hour before sunrise; he fell asleep immediately and, if he dreamed, he didn’t remember it. He managed five hours before he woke, throwing himself into projects as soon as he was up, keeping himself busy. Driving into Sevierville to pick up the tin in Steve’s borrowed truck, Clint and Sam swung by Commercial Door & Hardware to pick up the glass shower door Phil had ordered. Along the way, they stopped by [Tara Jean’s Bakery](http://tarajeansbakery.com/) and picked up two dozen cupcakes, their contribution to tonight’s dinner.

 

“Oooooh, tell me you brought Bacon Maple, Barton, and all is forgiven,” Bucky said as he took the top box.

 

“Forgiven? What did I do?” Clint complained, keeping a hold on the second box before Steve snatched it.

 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Bucky had the box open as soon as he put the box on the counter. “Whatever happens is on your head; putting me and Romanova in the same room is courting trouble. Oooooo, a Turtle one. I call it.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’ve got dibs on the Salty Caramel,” Sam said. “And Clint’s name is already on the Peanut Butter and Jelly. But there’s two of each, so there’s plenty.”

 

Peggy came out of the kitchen in Steve’s condo, wiping her hands on her apron. “If there’s a Chunky Monkey, keep your hands off it James Buchanan.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’ll just take what’s left.”

 

Arriving alone, Natasha brought a couple six packs of Magner’s cider, a peace offering. Phil was the last, coming in with a big Greek salad he’d picked up on his way back from teaching. Piling their plates with Steak & Ale pie and dressed greens, they gathered in the living and dining area, sitting on  the couch as well as at the table. Outside the sliding glass door, the sun was setting over the city spread out below.

 

“What’s the latest?” Sam asked. He’d claimed the comfy chair with the ottoman.

 

“Dane’s in intensive care, but he came through surgery okay and the doctors think he’ll recover fully. Patsy’s already been released and they’re keeping Matt one more night for observation, but he should be out by tomorrow. The others were all treated and sent home,” Phil explained from his spot beside Clint on the couch. “Logan lost the trail near Crosby; said it was like they just disappeared. Jean’s been scrying for answers but all she’s getting is darkness when she tries to locate Rumlow’s body.”

 

“Someone’s hiding it from her. Takes a lot of energy to do that.” Peggy sipped her cider, setting her fork down on her plate. “This isn’t just Rumlow being an asshole, is it? He was working for a greater power.”

 

“That’s the theory.” Phil nodded as he spoke. “With the Hunt on the loose, I worry there’s a shifting of the balance; Brigid has been unusually distant, one could say even absent.”

 

“As has Arianrhod,” Sam added. “And the omens are very confusing.”

 

“Wait, wait.” Clint swallowed the bite he’d put in his mouth. “Brigid? Arianrhod? Are you saying they … what?”

 

“You’ve seen the Hunt but you have a hard time with the gods being real?” Bucky said with a chuckle. “Dude. You are so far down the rabbit hole. Just eat the damn cupcake and go with it.”

 

“You only think you’re funny, Barnes,” Clint shot back. “Can we just pretend that I know jackshit about all this and explain it on a kindergarten level?”

 

“Basically, worship is essential to a god. The more followers they have, the more power they have in the pantheon. There’s always a give and take between them; usually there’s a balance with the bigger ones keeping the rest in line. But every now and then, one of them makes an attempt to shift things,” Phil explained. “Around here, people follow Brigid, Arianrhod, and Danu; not everyone, mind you, but most.”

 

“The goddesses always have more worshippers.” Peggy grinned.

 

Bucky started to reply, but Steve cut him off. “We’re not having that argument again.”

 

“The creature, tonight. I’ve never heard of anything like that.” Sam sipped from his bottle. “I’ve read my grandmother’s journals and there’s nothing in there about a being of smoke and darkness.”

 

“It was a man,” Clint interjected. “I saw arms, legs, a torso. He was just moving so fast that he was nothing but a blur.”

 

“You saw him?” Phil turned his gaze Clint’s way. “I was standing right beside you.”

 

“Just for a second, after the dogs had ripped him to shreds and he came back together.” Clint thought he’d mentioned that fact. “No distinct face, though.”

 

“Yeah, and  why did the hounds go after it? Has the Hunt been called to chase it down?” Steve asked. “That’s too easy an answer to be true.”

 

“Agreed.” Phil looked at Natasha. “Seems to me we have a set of question with no answers. Who called the Hunt? What’s their target? Who put the ideas in Brock’s head? What was the creature and why did the hounds chase him?”

 

“The hounds were drawn to the violence.” Natasha spoke for the first time. “The standing theory is that Brock called the Hunt despite his denials; he might have wanted to send them after Erik, use them to undermine his authority. Not saying I buy it, but that’s what Fury’s working from. To me the interesting question is why right now and why here? There are easier places to target if one of the Tuatha de Danann want to make a play.”

 

“Straight to the point like always.” Bucky got up and walked to the boxes. He picked up the monster sized Hot Fudge Sundae cupcake with white icing covered in sprinkles and drizzled with chocolate, walked it over to Natasha and sat it on the end table by her. “Just spill. What do you think we should do next.”

 

She glanced down at the cake then at Bucky’s retreating back before answering. “It’s two weeks until Samhain; it might be worth taking on one of the strongest Grooves to get access to all the raw power that will be flying around that night. Work behind the scenes up to then, getting everything ready, make my move at the height of the ritual.”

 

“But Rumlow jumped the gun,” Bucky said. “Trying to take out Phil, he went off plan. That sounds exactly like Brock.”

 

“And he misjudged Clint,” Steve added. “Brock was never a planner; he reacted out of anger.”

 

“Yes. Barton’s the wild card in the deck. No one expected him to show up.” The look Natasha nailed him with left no bones that she knew far more than she let on. “So Fury’s starting with Rumlow, backtracking to see who he’s been talking to, find out what he can. You work the opposite direction; why is Phil in particular such a danger that he needs to be taken out first?”

 

“We talk to John, see what we can get from him,” Bucky said through a mouthful of maple frosting. “Or better yet, get Barton to put the fear of God into him.”

 

“What about Brock’s body? Shouldn’t we be trying to find hit?” Clint asked. “Why take it anyway?”

 

“There’s a lot that can be done with a body after death,” Phil told him. “Especially one that’s been excommunicated. Blood, bones … not all magic is healing and helpful.”

 

“Someone’s going to cut him up and use him to make … spells? potions?” Clint was appalled. “That’s …”

 

“Barbaric? Yes. Yes, it is,” Natasha agreed. “But you’re right about finding the thief. He didn’t walk out of there on his own; there wasn’t time for a reanimation spell. Someone carried him. It’s another place to start.”

 

“Reanimate.” Clint put down his fork and set his plate on the coffee table. “Next you’ll be telling me that the gods come party during Samhain and Beltane.”

 

Silence greeted Clint’s pronouncement.

 

“Here, have a cupcake,” Sam said, getting the box and setting it closer. “I think you’re going to need the sugar to get through this.”

 

Phil nodded and reached for a Strawberry Sensation. “It’s going to be okay,” he told Clint. “I promise.”

 

They got down to divvying up what to do, making a game plan; Rumlow’s last few weeks needed to be tracked, who he met, where he made his plans. As the new face, Clint was the unknown; he could walk into a store and not be recognized. He volunteered readily to do what he could including keeping an ear to the ground while at the Pub.

 

Plenty of food was left, even some cupcakes. As good as they were, one was enough of a sugar rush. Clint was going to have to start exercising again or he was going to gain weight. Usually, he ate in fits and starts, going hungry when money was sparse and loading up when he could; he was no stranger to ramen noodles for lunch and dinner.  Between meals at Peggy’s and all the donations from the church, Clint hadn’t had it this good in a long time.

 

“You want the Red Velvet or the Reese Cup?” Natasha asked, snapping Clint out of his reverie. “Nick’ll want the Snickers for sure.”

 

“Either’s fine; take your pick,” Clint replied. “I grabbed the Strawberries and Cream for Phil already.”

 

She put the Red Velvet on her to-go plate. “Seems to me,” she said, “that one question would be how you knew it wasn’t the Hunt. And wasn’t it an interesting coincidence that the hounds came just when they were needed?”

 

Glancing around, Clint realized they were alone in the kitchen. “What are you saying?”

 

“You’ve got talents that could be helpful. If you’d use them.” She didn’t mince words. “Ever occur to you that you’re here because _we_ need you?” With that shot across the bow, she took her food and left him standing.

 

What the hell did that mean? That he was self-centered and need to get outside of his own head? Or was she warning him that Phil was in trouble? Damn it, why couldn’t anyone just tell him straight out what they meant?

 

“What’s your schedule this week?” Phil asked as he slipped up behind Clint. “Any chance of finding a little time to do nothing together?”

 

“I close on Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday.” Clint was still turning Natasha’s words over in his head.

 

“Nick’s got me busy on Tuesday, but Friday is open. Maybe an actual date? I’ll call Buckberry Lodge and make a reservation.” Phil packed away the pie and what was left of the salad. “Their tenderloin burger is excellent.”

 

“I might have to break out my one nice outfit,” Clint said. He’d have to dig it out of his duffle, but Sam had an ironing board. “I get off at five.”

 

“Done.” Phil paused. “You’re coming over tonight?”

 

“Absolutely. Whenever you’re ready.”

 

They said good night, ignoring Bucky’s wink and nudge; it really wasn’t that late, at least by Clint’s standards. The whole drive back, Clint brooded on what Natasha had said. Pushing it aside as they pulled into Phil’s driveway, he grabbed the leftovers and carried them in, putting the food in the fridge and the cupcakes on the counter.

 

“What’s troubling you?” Phil ask, leaning against the counter. “You were quiet the whole way back.”

 

Clint thought about making a joke, hiding behind a smile, but that hadn’t worked so far. Everyone seemed to see right through his lies anyway. “I can’t imagine what I have to worry about. Let’s see … my car died, I’m living off the kindness of a guy I met at a bar, I was attacked by a guy wielding a bat, kidnapping, stripped naked, tied to a chair, drugged. I killed three guys, got a hand job while watching two people have sex on a rock, and shot an arrow through the heart of another guy. Oh, and the Wild Hunt is running around out there, a guy with antlers keeps showing up in my dreams, and there’s an unknown creature tearing around the woods. Oh, and there’s a monster inside of me. I might have missed a few things, but that about covers it.”

 

“Well, if that’s all,” Phil replied. “I’ll try not to add anything to the list.”

 

“Ah, no, Phil.” Clint caught Phil’s hands and stepped closer. “You’re not a problem. Hell, you and me … this thing we’ve started … it’s  … not complex … it’s … good. You’re good.” He leaned in and kissed Phil gently. “We work …” He kissed along the curve of Phil’s jaw. “When I’m with you, I feel … centered.” He nibbled Phil’s ear. “I don’t  … the other part of me … I don’t have to fight it.” Down the curve of Phil’s neck, Clint nuzzled his nose into the crook of Phil’s shoulder. “You know and you still want me.” His voice waivered. “I just ... “

 

He was trembling as Phil’s arms pulled him close. “You are the strongest man I’ve ever known,” Phil told him, lips moving against Clint’s hair.  “I am amazed by you daily. That you’re here.In my life.”

 

“Some terrible date, I am,” Clint mumbled, hugging Phil tight. “Bring me home and I go all maudlin on you.”

 

“Well, you did bring cupcakes. That’s a plus.” Phil chuckled and Clint felt the vibrations rumble through Phil’s chest. “Can’t complain about that.”

 

“True.And that reminds me.” Clint pushed back just enough to bring their bodies into alignment so he could see Phil’s face. With facile fingers, he began to unbutton Phil’s white oxford, starting at the top. “I had a plan.”

 

“Oh, did you?” Phil relaxed back, dropping his hands to the edge of the counter as Clint tugged the ends of his shirt out of his pants. “And what might this plan be?”

 

“It wasn’t to get all sappy, that’s for sure.” Unbuckling Phil’s belt, Clint unhooked the eyelet and lowered the zipper. “I seem to remember a conversation we had a few days back.”  Reaching over, Clint opened the lid of the plastic container with the cupcakes and scooped  his finger in the mound of peanut butter icing. “Something about a tattoo that you wanted.” With a light touch, he swirled the sugary spread around Phil’s nipple, curling in an intricate pattern into the center, adding a dab on the nub before he started on the other one.

 

With a hiss of air between his teeth, Phil arched into Clint’s touch. “Oh. That conversation.”

 

Smearing the icing, Clint dipped his head and touched his tongue to Phil’s nipple. He dragged the tip out in widening circles, catching the sweet and sweaty taste. Then he reversed direction until he sucked the nub into his mouth, working it between his lips. When he’d licked Phil’s skin clean, he moved to the other side. Under his hands, Phil shuddered and moaned at each touch.

 

“Jesus, Clint,” Phil groaned. “That’s …”

 

He broke off when Clint nipped with his teeth, just this edge of hard.

 

“Fuck,” Phil whispered.

 

“Not yet,” Clint replied, sinking on onto his knees. He caught the waistband of Phil’s pants and his briefs, tugging them down, freeing his straining cock. With a lascivious grin, Clint lifted the cupcakes off the counter, sat them on the floor, and filled his palm with icing.

 

“Going to be messy,” Phil murmured.

 

“There’s a big bathtub upstairs,” Clint replied. He cupped his hand around Phil’s length, icing squeezing through his fingers. Licking them clean after he covered as much as he could with the sweet spread, he watched Phil’s eyes the whole time, blatantly sucking each finger to tease Phil. Then he set to work with his tongue, sweeping up the icing and making Phil curse; Clint loved to hear it when Phil lost his filters. By the time Clint parted his lips and took Phil in his mouth, he didn’t know the language Phil was speaking; when he slid his hands up Phil’s chest and pinched his nipples, the words broke into sounds and then moans. Phil’s muscles tensed, he gave a low pitched groan and then he came, Clint swallowing it all.

 

Sitting back on his heels, Clint tilted his head back, flicked his tongue to catch the last drops of icing and cum at the corner of his lips, and smiled. “That will never get old, watching Phil Coulson fall to pieces.”

 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Phil said. He looked damn good, relaxed and at ease, pants down around his knees and red circles on his chest. “Now I really do need a bath and …” He dropped his eyes to Clint’s crotch, “... you need my full attention.”

 

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

Later, warm and safe under the log cabin patterned quilt, Clint lay on his back, Phil asleep beside him, an arm thrown over Clint’s chest and his head resting on Clint’s shoulder. Stroking his hand down Phil’s back, he watched the play of shadows on the ceiling; outside, a lone dog barked, his calls going unanswered. What Natasha had said … the other part of Clint rumbled, possessive of this man in his arms. If Phil needed him, there would be no leaving. Peggy, Sam, Steve, Bucky … these people were worth saving. Maybe he finally had a reason to stay.

 

At least for awhile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're every on I-40 passing the Sevierville/Pigeon Forge/Gatlinburg exit, take a a few minutes and stop at Tara Jean's Bakery. Trust me, it's worth the detour. 
> 
> Mike's punishment is taken from the Mabinogion when Math punishes rapists by turning them into hinds for a year. Originally I had a line in where Sam is clearer about what Emma is going to do with Mike the bitch, but I didn't think I needed to be that explicit. 
> 
> Rumlow's is taken from an medieval romance where everyone must stab the traitor so that they all have a hand in the execution.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil's in trouble and Strike Team Delta goes to save him. Villains begin to reveal themselves and Clint gets the shovel talk from two people. 
> 
> warning: this chapter contains some blood magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter contains blood magic. 
> 
> Things are going to start moving faster now that the plot is motion!

Natasha blew through the pub’s front door at 9:27 p.m. on Thursday night. Heads turned as she strode straight ahead, her low heeled boots clicking as she crossed the space.  A storm wave washed ahead of her, green eyes dark and angry, flashing with purpose; to Clint’s sight, sparks danced in her aura, crackling as she moved.

 

“I need you.” She stopped at the end of the bar. “Grab your coat and let’s go.”

 

“I’m closing,” Clint told her, resisting the urge to step back in the face of her anger.

 

“Phil’s in trouble.”

 

That was all she had to say; Clint untied his apron. “Peg?” he asked as the dark-haired woman came out of the back. “I have to …”

 

“Go,” she said. “We’ve got this covered.”

 

At the bottom of the stairs a black limousine idled; Natasha opened the driver’s door and eyed Clint as he hesitated. “What?”

 

“A limo? Seriously?” He got in the passenger side on the front. “Somehow I thought you’d drive something more powerful … a muscle car.”

 

“Maybe I moonlight as a chauffeur.” She threw the car into gear and hit the gas.

 

“You would look good in the uniform.” Buckling his seatbelt, Clint held on as she spun out on the gravel road.

 

“That is true.” She flashed him a grin, gunning the engine as they pulled out onto the two lane asphalt. “But I needed a ride and the driver left the keys in the ignition.”

 

“A stolen limo,” Clint amended. He gripped the hand hold over the door as she took a curve too fast. “This thing doesn’t corner well.”

 

“We’re going to Sam’s; you’ll need a weapon. I assume you have one there.” Natasha didn’t slow down. “Phil’s MIA. He was supposed to meet me at 7:30, but he never showed. I need you to use your connection to find him.”

 

“You think something happened to him?” A knot of icy cold settled in Clint’s stomach. “Maybe he’s stuck in traffic with a dead cell phone.”

 

“I know something’s wrong. Death has a certain flavor; when it’s imminent, I can smell it.” She turned into Sam’s driveway, making the short drive even shorter. “We’ve got a small window of time, but I don’t know where he is.”

 

“What about Fury?” Clint asked, his worry meter going off the charts.

 

“He’s in Caryville, checking out a lead. By the time he gets here, it will be too late. You’re Phil’s best chance.”

 

“Look, the connection. It only works one way. Phil can sense me, but I can’t sense him.” Clint slammed his fist against the dash. “Damn it, I can’t find him.”

 

“You won’t know until you try. Now get your weapons and get the hell back out of here.”

 

Clint ran all the way to his room, jumping over Riley and tearing up the stairs. With bow and quiver in hand, a knife on his belt, he climbed back into the limo, barely shutting the door before they were barreling backwards, turning and heading to the road.

 

“Okay, what do I do?” he asked.

 

“Try closing your eyes and thinking about Phil. Bring up memories.” Sam’s voice came out of the radio; Natasha tapped her bluetooth when Clint looked askance.  “Visualize the connection -- a thread or some physical link that you can follow.”

 

“Fine. Okay.” Clint did what Sam suggested; he filled his head with the image of Phil asleep in his arms, the line of his back, the curve of muscles. The whole bedroom came into focus, the flickering of candles, the scent of cedar, and the play of light on the ceiling. He concentrated, trying first a thread then a rope. “Fuck.”

 

“Give it time. Try again,” Sam coached. “You’re learning …”

 

“You’re not going to get there by holding back,” Natasha cut in. “Phil needs all of you.”

 

Glaring at the redhead, Clint knew she was right; he was going to have to do it. Phil’s life was at stake. So he pictured the wall inside him this time, took a deep breath, and imagined himself putting his palm flat against the pitted, cracked surface. For Phil, he thought. Help me find him.

 

A rush of power ran up his arm and filled his chest; not anger, not heat, but a strength that burst out and expanded his senses. Now, when he thought of Phil, his sight flew quickly afield; a searing pain settled on his chest, acid eating away at his skin. Crying out, he scrabbled at his shirt, tried to rub away whatever was burning into his bones.

 

A sharp jolt and he snapped out of it, staring at the red lump on the back of his hand where Natasha had pinched him. “Don’t lose yourself,” she said. “You can’t help him if you get caught up.”

 

With a sharp nod, Clint sank back into the connection, feeling the agony with Phil but managing to remain in the car at the same time. *Phil* He wasn’t sure if he spoke out loud or just in his head. *Open your eyes, Phil. Let me see where you are so we can come get you.”

 

Phil blinked, pulling apart eyelashes caked with blood. The first thing Clint saw was a dimly lit packed dirt floor with black rubber mats covered with hay. Turning his head, Phil gave Clint a view of two thuggish men, guns at the ready, standing guard. Then Phil put his chin down on his chest; red ran in a circle over his bare skin, lines painted into a complex design.

 

“They’ve put something on his chest, a rune or something,” Clint told Natasha. “He’s hurting. There’s at least two …” Clint paused; Phil’s eyes roved over the scene. “Wait, there’s at least five that Phil can see; four look like guards, the other might be the leader. He’s somewhere with dirt floors and there’s …” Phil turned his head and a spike of pain ran down Clint’s spine. “... wooden doors and … horses. It’s a stable.”

 

“There’s a number of stables in the area; horsebacking riding is a popular tourist activity in the park,” Sam said. “I’ll pull up a list. Most are in the Park itself or near the trailheads.”

 

“We need more details.” Natasha turned onto Route 321.

 

Every movement brought another blinding wave of agony, but Phil didn’t stop, moving his gaze to what were a set of partially open doors. “Okay, he can see a black SUV, looks like a Suburban, parked outside. There’s lights and a white fence and the edge of a green old-timey wagon with a banner that says … Stables. And something else … O...A...K…”

 

“Five Oaks. I’ve been there; the main house rents rooms for parties and weddings,” Sam’s voice broke in. “You near the new bypass? That’ll be the easiest way to get there. It’s off the Parkway in Pigeon Forge. Near the NASCAR Speedway.”

 

“On it.” She slammed on the brakes, fishtailed the big car into a 180 degree turn so she could make a hard left turn onto PIttman Center Road. “Stay with Phil. Keep him grounded and describe the rune if you can. We’ll be there in less than 20 minutes.”

 

*Stay with me Phil,* Clint begged. *We’re on our way. Just hang on.*

 

*Roses*

 

As clear as day, Clint heard Phil’s voice. “Roses? What does that mean?”

 

“You see roses?” Sam asked.

 

“No, Phil’s thinking it, but I don’t understand,” Clint replied.

 

“Thorns. Every rose has one.” Natasha took a curve and Clint slid across the seat, only his belt keeping him from slamming into the door. “It’s a thorn rune, damn it. They used a thurisaz.”

 

“I’ll get to work on a cure; Gramma’s recipe book has one for each of the runic curses.”

 

Clint quit paying attention to Sam and Natasha’s conversation; Phil’s presence was fading into white static in Clint’s head. “Phil, stay with me,” he said. “We’re close.”

 

*...can’t…* Phil slipped in and out. *Clint, I …*

 

“Phil, listen to me, okay?” Clint tried to remember the other night. “I think I know what will help.”

 

He pictured Phil, back against the standing stone, a semi-circle of six candles on the ground. In his mind, he flicked a lighter and lit the first two, repeating what Phil had said. “We ask Bridgit for a place of safety and comfort.”

 

* Lady Bridgit* Phil echoed.

 

“To Bel for … healing that centers and calms.” Those weren’t the exact words, but close enough.

 

*Bel for healing* Phil repeated.

 

The gnawing of the curse lightened just the tiniest bit; Phil inhaled a deep breath.

 

“We ask …” Damn, Clint couldn’t remember the last one.

 

“Cerridwen,” Sam prompted. “For wisdom to combat evil magic.”

 

“That’s not the same,” Clint argued.

 

“You choose the requests based upon need. Cerridwen is our best bet,” Sam replied.

 

“Fine.” Clint didn’t care; he just wanted to help Phil. “We ask Cerridwen for wisdom and to aid us as we combat evil magic.”

 

*Cerridwen give me knowledge* Phil sighed. *It won’t last long; curse is too strong.*

 

“We don’t need much time,” Clint told him as they barrelled through a right turn onto the Parkway. “We’re almost there. I’m coming for you, Phil.”

 

They weaved through the traffic; bars and restaurants were doing brisk tourist business and the NASCAR racing lot was lit up like a football field, go-karts zooming around the curves not quite as fast as Natasha was driving. She whipped onto the right shoulder to get to the turn, ignoring the horns that blared in her wake. Past the track, the other cars disappeared as they circled around a pond and through a stand of trees, taking a bend and seeing the stables on the right. The road ahead split, left running uphill to a big sprawling white building with a red tin roof; light spilled from the windows and cars were parked in the adjacent lot. The stables, meanwhile, were darker, horses put up for the night; two street lights on poles created puddles in the night.

 

The other nudged Clint; his expanded senses searched the area in a split second. “Slow down and go left,” Clint told Natasha. “We’ll park on the far side of the main house.”

 

She didn’t question him, dropping to a more sedate pace and bringing the limo to a stop. Before she opened the door, Clint put a hand on her arm. Unfocusing his eyes, he searched for auras; the horses were warm browns, safe in their stalls while three humans gathered in one of the SUVs. In the furthest building, four humans were inside, Phil’s spectrum of blues overlaced with jagged black and bleeding red. And then there was the other … being? creature? Clint wasn’t sure what to call it; not a touch of humanity surrounded it. Only darkness, a complete absence of any color, marked its location.

 

“Three in a car, four in the building, and … something else.” Clint strapped his quiver on his back and opened his door. “I’ll go in high, through the loft; can you handle the frontal attack?”

 

“Not a problem,” Natasha assured him, climbing out her side. “Can you deal with your end?” Calm settled over Clint, the other sliding into place; not taking over, but sharing the same space. He turned his hawk eyes towards her; a slow smile spread across her face. “Ah, nice to meet you, Clint Barton. Now let’s go get your Druid back.”

 

Circling around a larger pond hemmed in by a white fence, Clint made for the back of the stable. A drainpipe ran up the side; he climbed it without hesitation, slipping through one of the upper windows and landing lightly on the hayloft floor. Taking a position behind a stack of bales, he drew a bead on the first thug, knowing intuitively where each one of them were. His plan was to wait for Natasha to make her move and then take out the guards from here.

 

But then he saw Phil, laid out on the ground, his body trapped inside a circle drawn in the hard packed earth. Blood trickled from one side of his mouth, the same bright red that was smeared across his chest. A rage boiled up inside him, pure and unfiltered; he didn’t fight it, let it wash through him and welcomed the power it brought. In two heartbeats, he fired three arrows and notched a fourth; he jumped the space over the middle of the stable, twisting to take out the last guard before he landed on the other side. He sprung back instantly, somersaulting as he dropped to the earth below, putting himself between Phil and the thing in the back of the barn.

 

“Mr. Barton.” The man was tall and slim, wearing a perfectly fitted bespoke suit. Black worsted with the tiniest grey stripe, black shirt, black tie … his hair was dark and slicked back, his skin pale enough that dark brown eyes seemed like small points of darkness in his face. “I had hoped we get to meet before the end. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but that would be a lie.”

 

Clint didn’t drop his bow, arrow aimed right at the man’s heart. “Who the hell are you and what do you want with Phil?”

 

“Now what would be the fun if I told you that?” He grinned and flashed a wickedly white set of teeth. “So much more enjoyable to watch you squirm. All of you.”

 

“Take the curse off of Phil,” Clint said. “Or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

 

“You’ll try to kill me. Those little arrows of yours aren’t going to do a thing; you are completely clueless about what you’re facing.” He took one step forward. “Just how will you handle the truth, I wonder? What say we get a preview?”

 

Between one step and the next, he splintered into dark pieces that flew at Clint like a hundred small birds, swooping and diving in a concerted attack. He loosed three arrows; all flew right through the insubstantial forms without slowing down. They pecked at his face; he threw up his arms and ducked down as they passed, circling around Phil and settling on his body. Arching up with a scream, Phil began to seize, bucking and jumping as the birds’ beaks dug into his skin.

 

“Fuck you!” Clint shouted, rolling up and running for Phil. “Get the hell away from him.”

 

He slammed into a solid force, toe hitting the edge of the circle drawn in the dirt. Pounding on the invisible wall with his fists, he yelled, “I swear to God, I will fucking tear you to pieces with my own hands.”

 

Coalescing back into a human form, the man laughed, straddling Phil’s body. “Poor little human. You have no hope of breaking through my magic. I shall eat your mentor from the inside out while you watch.”

 

“Son-of-a-bitch.” Clint reached as deep inside of himself as he could, blew open all the doors and shattered every wall, balling up every bit of power he had and filling his hands with a purple glow. Laying his palms against the magical barrier, he gave the other full reign. The wall shivered under his fingers, beginning to vibrate as he focused.

 

“What the … You can’t do that! It’s impossible.”The man stepped towards Clint, leaving Phil alone.

 

“Never tell me the odds,” Clint practically growled as he felt the barrier give way, purple cracks radiating out. It shattered, blowing outward. “Now!”

 

Like an avenging angel, Natasha Romanova swooped in through the main door. Clint saw her in all her glory, an instrument of destruction raining down upon the dark thing that hovered before him. With an inhuman screech, the man dissolved before her onslaught of slashing blades and spinning kicks, dispersing into the night, running from the death she brought with her.

 

Scuffing the edge of the circle with his foot, Clint rushed to Phil’s side, dropping to his knees. Tossing off his quiver and jacket, Clint tugged his t-shirt over his head, wrapping it around his hand. He wiped at the blood on Phil’s chest; it smeared as he rubbed it away, but his heart leapt when he realized it wasn’t Phil’s. Underneath, Phi’s skin was still smooth. Determined to get it all, Clint soaked up as much as he could with the grey cotton, removing the rune completely.

 

“We’ve got to go.” Natasha touched his shoulder. “I can’t be sure how long he’ll be gone. Whatever he is, he’s just dispersed, not dead.”

 

With a nod, Clint scooped up Phil, balancing Phil’s head on his shoulders as he cradled him close and then they were running back up the slope to the car. He slid in the back, keeping Phil in his arms; Natasha jumped in the front and started the engine, backing up and turning around. Phil moaned as the car bumped over the road, eyes fluttering, head falling back.

 

“I got rid of the rune, but he’s not coming out of it,” he told Natasha. Pressing his fingers to Phil’s neck, he found the pulse, slow and distant. “Damn it, what do I do?”

 

“We’ll be there soon. Try to use your connection to keep him awake,” she said.

 

“Phil,” Clint brushed the blood away from Phil’s lips with the pad of his thumb. “Hey, I’ve got you. Everything’s fine.”

 

Eyelids cracked open; Phil mumbled, “Too far.”

 

“It’s not too far; we’ll be at Sam’s soon.” Clint felt a trickle run down his chest; his fingers came away red when he brushed against his skin.

 

“Can’t hold …” Phil’s words stopped and he stilled.

 

“Hey.” Clint shook him lightly. “Phil. Phil? He’s not answering.”

 

“Turning onto the bypass,” Natasha told him. “Trust your instincts and do what you can.”

 

Every fiber was screaming that Phil was slipping away; what he needed was a way to share his strength with Phil, to give him a fighting chance. And then he knew what to do. He ran his finger along the ragged slice on his neck from a beak and then wiped his blood along Phil’s lips, covering them with sticky red. When Phil didn’t move, he wet his finger again and slipped it between Phil’s lips, pressing far enough back that Phil instinctively swallowed. Clint kept feeding Phil drop by drop until Phil sighed and licked his lips, sucking at Clint’s finger tip.

 

“Take what you need,” Clint murmured.

 

In return, Phil lifted his head and licked along Clint’s shoulder and over the wound. Like the first time they touched, Clint felt the energy flow between them, building as Phil began kissing along the line of muscle, lips parting the tattooed lines and dragging them into new formations. As the magic built, Clint began to feel what Phil was feeling -- scattered thoughts coming back together, a ripped hole gaping open, an ache that needed filling --- and he poured himself into the gaps left behind by the thorn curse.

 

“Clint.” Phil sat up and shifted to face him. “Will you …”

 

“Anything, Phil. Anything.”

 

Phil’s hand splayed over Clint’s heart, and they synced, beating in rhythm. Their mouths came together and Clint tasted the metallic tang. Phil’s kisses were needy and demanding, taking all that Clint offered, drawing upon the depths that Clint had let loose. Along Clint’s jaw and down his neck, Phil trailed his mouth;  he slid off Clint’s lap and onto the limo floor, unbuckling Clint’s belt and freeing his cock.

 

“Phil, are you …” Clint gasp at the first brush of Phil’s tongue against his half-hard length.

 

“I need you,” Phil said, eyes turned upwards, his gaze reverent and sincere. “I’m yours.”

 

“I …” Clint couldn’t turn Phil down, not when he looked at him with such raw need. “Phil. Yes.”

 

Clint’s head dropped back and he closed his eyes as Phil took him in his mouth, surrounding him with warm heat. Clint lost himself in the feeling, giving over to the moment. HIs hand came to rest on the scar of his mark on Phil’s shoulder and he spread his legs wider, framing Phil between his knees. Stress and pent up tension evaporated, and calm settled over him; he and Phil, together, that was where he belonged.  All of him, every permutation, every  shadowy corner. With Phil’s hands on his thighs grounding him, he carded his fingers through Phil’s hair and let Phil work this very primal magic of joining and sharing their essences.

 

When he came, Clint felt like he was soaring, a hawk above the clouds; catching Phil under his arms, Clint lifted him up onto his lap  and laid him out, unzipping Phil’s khakis and curling one hand around Phil’s cock so he could stroke him to his own finish. His other hand, teased Phil’s nipple, first one then the other, tweaking and pinching until Phil cried out, arching up off the leather seat. Leaving a hand on Phil’s chest, he watched the lines spiral onto Phil’s skin, a sinuous circle that surrounded the pink nub and left permanent ink.

 

“We’re pulling into Sam’s driveway, boys,” Natasha’s voice said over the speaker. “Make yourself presentable.”

 

In the midst of everything, Clint had missed Natasha putting up the tinted divider, giving them privacy. The full import of what they’d done -- sex in the back of a limo while Phil was hurt -- sank in and Clint felt a blush rise on his cheeks, warm heat of embarrassment.

 

“Um, yeah, I …” He had no clue what to say.

 

“Don’t.” Phil took Clint’s proffered hand and sat up. “You just saved my life. Don’t make it a bad thing. Sex is one of the greatest forces of energy, and blood magic isn’t always dark. You did the right thing.”

 

“I just … when I let go, I always seem to end up having sex with you.” Clint tucked himiself away and zipped up his pants.

 

“And that’s a bad thing? I don’t see you jumping Sam or Steve or anyone else.” Phil managed a shaky grin. “I meant what I said, Clint. About being yours.”

 

The door opened and Natasha cleared her throat, giving them enough time for Phil to scoot off Clint’s lap before Steve ducked down and helped him out. A babble of voices greeting them -- beside Steve, Bucky, Darcy, Peggy, Kate, and Logan were all gathered on the porch. Word had gotten around and everyone needed to see if Phil was fine. Leaning against his car, Erik waited by himself, watching the procedures with a gimlet eye.

 

“Sam’s got the circle ready,” Steve said. “We didn’t expect Phil to be mobile.”

 

“I can walk,” Phil assured him. “Slow, but I’ll get there.”

 

Lensherr’s eyebrow arched at the words and he glanced at Phil’s bare chest. “A thorn curse is nothing to trifle with, Phil. Let one of these young ones feel useful.”

 

Steve scooped up Phil before he could reply, carrying him around the house and down the stairs, sitting him in the middle of the prepared space. With everyone crowding in, Clint felt like the odd man out; he haunted the top of the stairs and then walked the length of the house as Sam began the work of curing Phil. It seemed to take hours of questions and potions and sweet smelling incense. At one point, Clint ended up sitting in the porch swing, Riley at his feet, watching the shadows dart between the trees, keeping just beyond the edge of the light from the windows.

 

“It’s a good thing you got to Phil when you did,” Lensherr said, stepping up onto the porch. “I imagine Natasha drove like a bat out of hell; riding with her on a normal day is taking your life into your hands.”

 

The easy-going tone didn’t fool Clint; Lensherr wanted something but he damn well didn’t care at the moment. “We made good time,” was all he said in reply.

 

The other man paused, thought about his next action, then sat down in the metal glider painted bright red. “Did anyone tell you what a thorn curse does?”

 

Clint shook his head.

 

“It’s a very aggressive rune, one that can be used to break through blockages in a person’s mind and soul or to tear down connections, break the binds if you well. For an initiate, they would be left without clear thought, mentally unstable, incoherent. I’ve seen it used to get answers to questions; the person almost always ends up in psychiatric treatment. Phil, however, is older, more powerful; it would start by tearing him away from his goddess before it went to work on his mind. Even fighting it, he’d have lasted no more than half an hour.” Erik reached down when Riley raised his head and scratched under the dog’s chin. “Phil says he drew strength through his bond with you.”

 

“That’s how I found him; he says it’s a residual from the potion Rumlow gave me.” Considering Erik already knew about their connection, Clint saw no harm in telling him. “One good thing that came out of that night.”

 

“I’ll agree. You are good for Phil.” Lensherr sat quietly for a few heartbeats. “Thing is, I don’t really care what you are; I care about protecting the Grove and you’re an unknown quantity. If you’re here to cause trouble, then I’ll have to stop you. If you’re going to move along, I’d ask you to do it sooner rather than later. And if you’re of a mind to settle down here then I want to know where you stand; Phil doesn’t agree, but I know there’s a battle coming. We can’t hide much longer; the gyre is coming ‘round at last.”

 

The speech impressed Clint and maybe, just maybe, made him think Lensherr might truly be interested in what was best for his people. He still didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him, but he did have a point. “Look, I don’t know what I’m going to do from one minute to the next -- that’s why I tend to wander -- but I can tell you this for sure. I’m not here to cause trouble. But somebody else has already started it and I am damn well going to finish it. That you can take to the bank.”

 

Another long searing look and then Lensherr nodded. “Good enough. You know what the consequences are if you turn out to be on the wrong side. If not, then I wish you and Phil well.”

 

“Thanks. I think.” Clint shrugged and went back to swinging.

 

When Fury arrived, he wanted to go over everything that happened one more time; Clint was surprised when Natasha followed his version of events, leaving out a few details about how he broke through the magical barrier and exactly what happened in the back of the limo. Then Fury started repeating questions, and Clint had had enough.

 

“Phil’s tired and he needs rest,” Clint insisted, standing in front of Fury and drawing himself up to his full height. “All this can wait until tomorrow.”

 

“We’ve got some kind of monster, maybe two different ones, roaming around and you want to cuddle, Barton?” Fury asked, staring into Clint’s unwavering gaze.

 

“Nick,” Lensherr interrupted before Clint could reply. “We’ll get to work tracking this thing down, but Clint’s right. Phil’s health is the most important thing right now. Look at him; he’s turning grey.”

 

“Thanks, Erik,” Phil said. He did look tired, slumped over and shivering even with a blanket around his shoulders. “I’m not that old yet.”

 

“Fine.” Fury seemed to collapse in on himself and Clint saw the worry etched on his face. “Damn it, Phil, we can’t afford to lose you. I don’t have that many friends left. Now, let your boy toy tuck you in and get a good night’s sleep.”

 

There was no argument about taking Phil home; Sam’s house had the best wards and a nice big bed was just up the stairs. Steve took lead again, helping Phil up from the cellar and onto the porch, the rest trailing behind, Logan opening the door. Clint brought up the rear, leaving Sam to put things away in the workshop. Just as he rounded the corner of the house, he saw a movement under the eave of the trees; a horse stood, pawing the ground, the antlered rider’s tawny eyes reflecting the moonlight. A warm hand came to rest in the crook of his back; Natasha stood beside him, a unified front. With a slow dip of his head, Clint nodded to the Lord of the Hunt; his antlers bobbed in return and then he was gone, horse bounding away into the forest, making nary a rattle among the leaves.

 

“Still making friends, I see,” Natasha said.

 

“Things get weirder every damn day,” Clint replied. “Honest-to-God, I’m just pretending I know what’s going on.”

 

“Aren’t we all?” She tilted her face up towards him. “All we can do is figure out who to trust.”

 

Phil complained he could do it all by himself, but he was flagging, holding onto the banister as he made his way upstairs. Clint got out a set of sweats and t-shirt while Phil was in the bathroom; Fury might have been joking about it, but Clint had every intention of tucking Phil under the quilt. It was Sam that swept everyone out of the room, leaving the two of them alone for the first time since they’d gotten to the house.

 

“Don’t be hard on Nick,” Phil said, sliding between the sheets. “He’s got a lot on his plate and he needs answers before someone else gets hurt.”

 

“Damn it, he was pushing you too hard.” Clint sat on the edge of the bed; he took a deep breath and calmed his emotions. “You scared me tonight.”

 

“Scared me too.” Phil covered Clint’s hand with his own.  “I thought I wasn’t going to make it.”

 

“I’m out of my depth,” Clint admitted. “But I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

 

Phil leaned over and brushed a kiss on Clint’s jaw. “That was supposed to be my line,” he murmured. “We’ll have to watch each other’s backs.”

 

“That I can do,” Clint promised. “Now you need to get some sleep.”

 

“Stay.” Phil squeezed his hand. “I’ll rest better with you here.”

 

“I’m just going to get a bottle of water -- gotta stay hydrated -- and make a pit stop in the bathroom.” He kissed Phil lightly. “Be right back.”

 

The living room was empty, most of the others already gone. Clint popped open the fridge and grabbed two waters.

 

“You were right,” Fury said. “I was pushing.”

 

Clint turned to find the man standing by the back door, black leather jacket over his shoulder. “You were,” he agreed. “But you’re trying to protect people. I get that.”

 

“Phil’s one of my oldest friends; I’ve lost so many over the years,” he told Clint. “I won’t let Phil get caught up in this.”

 

“I’ve got his back,” Clint assured him. “They’ll have to go through me first.”

 

“Something tells me that’s more of a threat than I originally thought,” Fury stated. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that [new tattoo](http://republicanhour.com/wp-content/plugins/akismet/celtic-knot-circle-tattoo-i4.jpg). We’re going to have a conversation. Soon.”

 

“You figure it out, let me know,” Clint shot back, shutting the fridge. “I’ve got more immediate concerns.”

 

“Make him sleep at least eight hours; I’ll call the school and tell them he’s not coming in tomorrow,” Fury said as Clint headed out of the kitchen.

 

Phil murmured drowsily as Clint climbed in bed; he put a bottle on each end table and snuggled up to Phi’s warm body. Lying awake, Clint replayed the day’s events in his mind, trying to get some perspective on what it all meant and what part he was playing. His mother’s stories floated up from his long-term memory, snatches of her voice and the vague image of her long, blonde hair. A tale of Darkness, Destruction, and Evil come to ravage the land.

 

The click of nails on the floorboards signalled Riley pushing open the door and standing by the bed; Clint dropped his hand over the side and rubbed the dog’s head until it settled on the braided run by the nightstand, taking up its nightly guard post.  Tracing the latest tattoo on Phil’s chest, Clint finally dropped off, easing into a doze and slipping into a dream.

 

_She laughed as she spun to a stop, the music slowing. “I need a drink,” she told her companions, two other women. “Be right back.”_

 

_Clint watched his mother walk away, the firelight catching on the golden threads in her hair, and he was mesmerized by her beauty, the smoothness of her sunkissed skin. A woman he never knew, this free and happy version of Edith Barton._

 

_“She’s lovely.” The voice came from behind him. “Too bad she’s already dead; she would have been perfect leverage against you. And I would have enjoyed every second of the pleasure of her company.”_

 

_Simple Levi’s jeans, black boots, a black tank top and unbuttoned black shirt -- this one was different than the other two. More in control. More dangerous._

 

_“And here’s number three,” Clint said, putting the fire to his back. “Let me see, the Tazmanian Devil guy is probably Destruction, Tippi Hendren Wannabe is Darkness and that makes you Evil. Or do you prefer Mr. Wicked? Want to be popular?”_

 

_“Oh, I do so love an intelligent opponent. Much more fun than mindless terror.” He smiled and tipped his head. “I see you’ve met my brothers; not the brightest bulbs, but they have their uses. And you’ve heard of us! That’s a pleasant surprise; most people have forgotten the old stories.”_

 

_“Don’t flatter yourself; you’re the farm league .” Clint struggled to drag the details out of his head, but all he could find were the names._

 

_“Alas, we have been forgotten, it’s true. But there’s a wide world out here just ripe for the picking.” Evil tucked his hands in his pockets. “Anonymity has its benefits.”_

 

_“So you’re here to cause trouble? Get your rocks off hurting people?” Clint grew angry as he spoke. “What’s the end game in all this?”_

 

_“Ah, now’s when I tell you my diabolical plan? Trust me, neither of my brothers go in for planning very much. Me? I prefer to take the easier way to my goal and that includes moving obstacles out of the way,” he said. “You, for example. Showing up all full of justifications and willingly blind to reality. You are a problem and I’d prefer to take the path of least resistance. What would it take to get you to walk away? Money? Fame? Love?”_

 

_“You’re going to pay me off?” Clint hadn’t expected that._

 

_“Who says evil has to be violent? I can get just as much done with a cashier’s check if not more.” He suddenly smiled wider. “I know. How about a nice happy life for you and Coulson? The two of you ride off into the sunset together and forget all this.”_

 

_Honestly, it was a good offer that hit right at the heart of what Clint wanted -- a life with someone, to not be alone anymore. “And leave the others to your mercies? No. Phil wouldn’t go for that. Hell, I wouldn’t either. These are good people; you can go fuck yourself.”_

 

_With a dramatic sigh, Evil stepped back. “Can’t say I didn’t try,” he said. “It’s a limited time offer. Twenty four hours to change your mind. Just get in a car and drive away. That’s all you have to do.”_

 

_He faded into the night, leaving Clint in the clearing with the standing stone at his back. From the North, something big came crashing through limbs, a whirling black mass that dropped into the figure of a man. Overhead, a flock of birds coalesced into another familiar face. Darkness was the one who spoke._

 

_“You know what happens to men who think they’re heroes?” he asked._

 

_“The end up scattered across the mountainside,” Destruction answered, a feral smile on his face. “Run, boy. It’s more fun when you run.”_

 

_They exploded into action; Clint was moving before he even realized it, heading into the tree line. Beaks pecked at his hair; he covered his head with his arms and darting through a mountain laurel bush, shaking them off. A long whip of black slashed out, and he dodged around a tree trunk, using a limb to swing out of the way. He had no time to think, relying purely on instincts to escape. With each footfall on the uneven ground, he mingled the parts of himself together, the knowledge of the forest spreading further as he moved faster and faster. The dogs surrounded him, barking and snarling, chasing away the bird and the darkness. Laughter followed as he broke out of the cover and made it onto the porch._

 

_“Big man, hiding under the skirts of an old woman’s wards.” Darkness straightened the lapels on his shirt._

 

_“Won’t last,” Destruction said, stepping up beside his brother. “You know why?”_

 

_“Because there’s one thing we know about heroes,” Darkness replied._

 

_“The sure fire way to get them out in the open,” Destruction began._

 

_Darkness finished the thought. “Is to go after innocents. See you soon, Clinton Francis.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmm, wonder where those names of the three brothers come from ... or just stay tuned. *winks*


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's playing watch dog, Clint's sweating on the roof, and there's BBQ for everyone. Phil's got a plan that involves a ritual and a lot of sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the scene that began this whole story. Always funny how one image in my head drives a whole plot as well as how it changes once the story grows.

Clint slipped out of bed, leaving a sleeping Phil curled up under the quilts, his face mashed into the feather down pillow. The coolness of the morning air had seeped into the room and made Clint miss the warm cocoon of body heat, but he was working the lunch shift today and he wanted to talk to someone about his dream. A clock was ticking in his head, the twenty-four hour deadline too close to waste on sleep. Downstairs, he took his first cup of coffee out on the porch, searching his phone for the number Natasha had given him last night before she left.

 

Fog settled in the dips and between the trees, heavy with moisture and hiding from the early feeble rays of the sun. Like smoke rising from the ground, the mist obscured his view, turning trees into shadowy creatures with spindly arms and bushes into squat figures, staring straight ahead. In the halfway time between night and full day, the dew left his skin feeling clammy, his bare feet cold from the touch of the chilled boards of the porch. Riley, unperturbed by the shivery feeling that crept up Clint’s back, dashed about the yard, stopping to take care of his morning business before he chased imaginary squirrels across the grass.

 

“Clint.” Natasha answered on the second ring, sounding wide awake. “What’s happened?”

 

“I might have called just to see if you ever sleep,” he said, eyes tracking the wind through the leaves. “Do you always assume the worst?”

 

“Saves time.” She shifted the phone and Clint heard a click as glass touched porcelain. “And I haven’t been to bed yet; the Matron always said if you make a mess, you have to clean it up.”

 

“Ah.” Clint hadn’t thought of that; leaving bodies strewn around a local stable would be a bad thing. “You could have asked for help.”

 

“Phil needed you near. Stubborn headed fool will think he’s fine, but until he reaffirms his vows, he’ll be at risk.”

 

“Wait. What?” More specifics Clint had to catch up on; he hated being the one who didn’t know.

 

“The curse broke down his connection to his goddess; the stronger the bonds, the more control a druid has. There are rituals he’ll have to repeat.” Natasha was quiet for a second then sighed. “Bless whoever first put a coffee bean in hot water.”

 

Clint took a sip from his own cup; the caffeine was helping push back against the tired blanket that hovered over his shoulders. “Amen to that.”

 

“Okay, now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, want to tell me why you called?” She got down to business.

 

“So, um, I’ve been having these dreams …” Clint found himself spilling every detail; he started from the first one after Brock attacked him to the appearance of the three brothers and their threats. He rambled on, Natasha not stopping him even when he digressed into his fears about his relationship with Phil and the fact that he was getting to know the hounds by their markings. “... if I believe it or not but if there’s the least chance of danger to people, we should take it seriously.”

 

“First, those are astral projections mixed with prophecy and lucid dreaming. Second, no wonder you and Phil made such a strong connection that lasted; you’ve been going at it like rabbits for weeks now. Third, damn it all to hell, I think I know we’re in deep shit. I need to talk to Charles first then we’ll convene a war council.” She paused. “I’ve got to talk to Nick. Look, tell everyone to stay together as much as possible and keep to safe, warded places. It’s no guarantee, but it’s the best we’ve got until we know more.”

 

“What about Phil? You said he was weakened.” Clint worried the edge of his cup with his fingertip, tracing around and around.

 

“Shit. That’s why they went after him twice; knock out the strongest first.” A muffled voice came from Natasha end of the connection; she replied to it, covering the phone so Clint couldn’t make out exactly what either person was saying. “... could stand against it,” her voice faded back in as she returned. “Listen, I know it’s early but call Steve; he’ll be up and can get things started. Then call Scott and Logan. Whatever else you do, stay by Phil’s side; you’re his protector, understand? These guys came to you last night, so odds are you’re next on their list.” Another mumbled conversation ensued. “Right, Erik. Let’s leave him to last and let Nick deal with him. I’m not convinced which side he’s on.”

 

“Attached at the hip, got it.” Movement caught Clint’s gaze, a shifting in the fog. “I can do that. On one condition -- I want you to quit tap dancing around whatever suspicions you have about me and say it outright. We don’t have time for opaque statements that mean jackshit to me.”

 

“Done and done,” she said. “Keep me updated.”

 

Tucking the phone in his jeans pocket, he went back inside to find a phone book, Riley on his heels, giving him the puppy dog eyes to be fed. As he poured the kibble into the dog’s bowl, Clint realized that it had been six weeks since he’d driven into town; October was almost gone, the cold of winter starting to creep in. Halloween was a week from Monday; he’d heard talk of some parties but everyone was too caught up in the other troubles to think that far ahead.

 

“Hey,” Sam said, coming down the stairs. He ran a hand over his head and blinked sleepily. “Phil still asleep?”

 

“Yeah.” Clint topped off his coffee and got a second mug for Sam. “You could be too.”

 

“Too much on my mind,” Sam admitted. “I’m feeling pretty damn restless; had some weird dreams.”

 

“That’s going around.” He poured the black liquid and handed the cup over. “You want to hang out in the kitchen while I call Steve? We can do a conference call if I put him on speaker; I can cut down on the number of times I get to describe my latest dream.”

 

“I can call Bucky,” Sam said. “Make it all four of us.”

 

“Nah, he already knows. He was there when I called Natasha.” Clint grinned at Sam’s surprised face.

 

“Well, damn it, I owe Logan twenty bucks,” Sam complained. “Alright, I’ve got Steve’s number in my phone. Let’s use it.”

 

Steve insisted on coming over; not long after hanging up the call, Peggy rang, telling Clint to stay home with Phil. She’d called Emma in to cover for Clint, a move that told him just how serious she was about the whole situation. They hashed over everything at the kitchen table. When Logan showed up just past nine, Clint went over it all again.

 

Sam might be able to spend the morning on the computer, researching brothers in Celtic lore, but Clint needed to keep busy. After a quick check of the weather for the next few days, he got the ladder and started working on the garage roof, peeling off the old tiles and generally maling a big mess in the yard. The sweat kept his worry at bay and his hands had something to do; he kept at it for a good three hours, clearing one side down to the plywood.

 

Bucky was on the couch when Clint came back in, socked feet kicked up on the couch, an episode of _Law and Order_ playing on the TV. He looked Clint up and down, wrinkling his nose. “You stink,” he said.

 

“Hello to you too.” Clint sipped the bottled water he’d grabbed from the fridge. “You the designated guard dog for the day?”

 

“James Buchanan, bodyguards are us.” He grinned. “Watching your sorry ass.”

 

Dropping the banter for a second, Clint asked, “Phil?”

 

“Still sleeping. He’s in a bad place; druids draw their energy from nature and their gods. If he’s cut off from Bridgit, he’ll be weak and open to attack. Someone else could take her place.” Bucky’s answer was just as serious. “Soon as he’s able, we need to get him to the stone to reconnect.”

 

“Like the old belief about sneezing.” Sounded strange, but it made sense to Clint. “The soul leaves the body and demons can jump in.”

 

“Surprisingly, that’s a good analogy. Except we’re not talking demons and his soul’s just fine, but yeah.” Bucky was really a smart ass; Clint appreciated that. “Now how about some lunch? I’m on duty here; heat up some of that leftover pie.”

 

“In your dreams,” Clint said, crossing the room to the stairs. “I’m going to clean up and check on Phil.”

 

“Aw, geeze, if you have sex, keep it down, okay? I didn’t get much sleep last night and the last thing I want to hear is you going at it.”

 

Taking the stairs two at a time, he shot back, “And exactly what were you doing instead of sleeping?”

 

“Shut up and get back down here. I’m hungry,” Bucky said with a wide grin on his face.

 

Easing the door open, Clint glanced at the bed; Phil lay in his favorite sleeping position, on his stomach, face turned to the side, pillow mashed up in a wad of feathers beneath his cheek. One arm was thrown across the empty spot on the double mattress. Even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed was a welcome comfort to Clint’s worry; still, he watched for a long minute, ache easing in the middle of the chest as he leaned against the door jamb. He forgot the danger swirling around them and just enjoyed the quiet contentment.

 

“What time is it?’ Phil mumbled. He lifted his head and looked for a clock.

 

“Almost one in the afternoon, sleepyhead.” He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Mmmmm.” Phil stretched and rolled to his side. “Like I could use a good morning kiss.”

 

“I’ve been working on the roof,” Clint warned him.

 

Phil wound his hand in Clint’s t-shirt and tugged him down. “Sweaty construction guy is a special kink of mine, didn’t I tell you?”  He kissed Clint, hot and needy, swiping his tongue along Clint’s lips. “Now this is a good way to wake up.”

 

“I should warn you; Bucky’s downstairs probably listening.” Clint shuddered as Phil licked a stripe up the side of his neck.

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had an audience,” Phil said. Pulling back, he looked at Clint. “Bucky’s here? And you’re not at work? What’s going on?”

 

“Nice to know kissing me comes before the question.” Clint captured one more kiss. “I had a dream and called Natasha. Now everyone’s on high alert; my orders are to stick by you.”

 

Phil sighed. “Well, I am hungry; I can eat and listen at the same time.” Then his hand tightened and he yanked Clint down on top of him. “But that can wait.”

 

There was no arguing when Phil had made up his mind and Clint happened to agree with him.

* * *

 

Phil insisted on helping Clint with the garage roof after two roast beef sandwiches and the one lone leftover Cherry Sundae cupcake. At first, Clint wouldn’t let him up the ladder, relegating Phil to picking up the shingles and tossing them in the big garbage can. Sitting on the porch, Bucky sipped at his tea and fielded all the calls from people wanting updates on Phil’s condition. When he wasn’t on the phone, Bucky straw bossed, shouting directions and generally being on watch.

 

By the time Clint was ready to start putting up the tin sheets, Phil was fully involved, lifting them up one at a time and helping hold them in place until Clint could get the first nails in. The garage was small enough that he finished with the last sheet just before Thor showed up to relieve Bucky. There was still the ridge cap and the rib covers to go; Thor had Phil settled in a rocker and was up on the roof himself in minutes, pitching in to get it finished. Around five thirty, Sam came home with groceries, a packed bag from Phil’s house, and a warning that others would be arriving soon. Clint’s quick shower turned into a long love making session when Phil joined him; they fogged up the mirror in the bathroom and had to wash up twice before they were ready to come back downstairs.

 

Fury and Natasha showed up a little after six with Bennett’s BBQ, enough to feed a small army. By six thirty, Jane had driven up with Darcy and Daisy in her Honda, bringing a big batch of homemade brownies. The sheriff and his wife came bearing baked beans and Oro Monroe had a big bowl of Thai salad. Lensherr brought a cooler full of beer and Emma Frost who hung off his arm in a pair of designer jeans and form fitting blue sweater. Logan and Steve were the last to arrive with a couple dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

 

The night became an impromptu bull session; they gathered around Grandma Wilson’s dining room table expanded to its full length, talking over each other and in smaller clusters. Clint was between Steve and Emma; she had a wicked sense of humor and shared interesting tidbits about everyone. She and Lensherr were off-again, on-again, a kind of casual open relationship that Clint didn’t think would work in the long run. Not that it mattered to her; she was determined to be a model or an actress, sure she’d make it big if she could just get out of this small town. 

 

With the wealth of knowledge in the room, finding answers was still a difficult proposition; they only had pieces of the puzzle to try to put together into a clear picture. Conflicting legends, hundreds of years of oral storytelling … all of it made tracking down the three brothers harder than Clint thought it would be. Along with figuring out who they were was the proposition of trying to determine what their next move would be. Tourists filled the rental cabins and hotel rooms, come to see the beautiful fall colors and celebrate Halloween in the mountains. Too many soft targets to cover, too easy to access large numbers of people. It seemed like a losing proposition to avert any more casualties.

 

The house grew warm; Clint was surrounded by bodies, laughter ringing in his ears, auras flittering on the edges of his sight. Emotions leaked out -- frustration and fear, desire and love, worry and doubt -- and Clint’s senses, still on high alert, were overwhelmed by the pure humanity of so many people in one space. His stomach rolled and a sharp ache settled in his temples; making his way through the kitchen, he slipped out the back door, into the cool air and the dimness of the night. Around the side of the porch, a path led towards the front; between two rhododendrons were wrought iron chairs, and Clint sat down, letting the noise recede, drawing upon the quiet of the forest to settle his mind. Twenty four hours, Evil had given him; Clint still had six or so to make a plan.

 

He heard the screen door open and voices floated towards him. “... bullshit about being fine. I remember what happened with Dugan back in the war. You shouldn’t be up and walking much less hauling around sheets of tin. Damn it, Phil, what is going on with you?”

 

“Has it occurred to you that maybe they didn’t do the curse correctly?” That was Phil answering, his tone laced with anger. “Because it sounds like you’re accusing me of lying to you about what happened and I’m pretty sure my **_friend_** wouldn’t do that.”

 

Fury huffed his displeasure at Phil’s barb. “Took Dum Dum almost six months to recover and you’re up and about in less than twelve hours? I’m not saying you’re lying …”

 

“But you think I’m not telling you the whole truth,” Phil finished. “Fine. You want to know what I’m not telling you? Clint and I had sex in the back of the limo on the way here.  Nothing like a little life affirming blow job to make you feel better, eh? Hey, maybe that’s the secret cure … suck on a cock and everything will be alright.”

 

“Jesus, Cheese, I don’t care if the two of you fuck on the dining room table in front of everyone. I’m just worried that you’re getting in too deep and losing your objectivity when it comes to Barton.” Fury sighed. “I haven’t seen you this gone on someone since … well, I’m not sure you’ve ever fallen this hard and this fast.”

 

“So what if I’m in love with him?” Phil countered.

 

A wave washed through him as he heard Phil say the word; the other gave a possessive growl, pleased to hear Phil stand up for him. Clint, on the other hand, felt his heart drop into stomach. Love was a commitment; it would make leaving harder and the last thing Clint wanted to do was hurt the man who’d come to mean so much to him.

 

Hesitating, Phil continued, “I went into this with my eyes wide open which is more than I can say for the way you and Erik have dealt with all this. You’ve assumed Clint’s the problem since the beginning; I think Clint’s the solution. They’re after me, Nick. Twice now, they would have had me if Clint hadn’t been there.”

 

“You can’t tell me the Hunt running around the countryside after he showed up is a coincidence,” Nick countered. “But you may have a point about you being the target. These guys are trying to get rid of anyone powerful enough to stand up against them; I’d be jealous if I didn’t know you could kick my ass if you tried. Hell, you could kick everyone’s ass.”

 

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence either, I just don’t know what it means. Yet. But I will; Clint deserves to know what’s going on.”

 

“Damn, you’ve got it bad,” Fury said. “You know he’s not going to stay around? His kind never do.”

 

It was stated so brazenly; Clint knew it was true -- he always moved on -- but Phil made him want to change. He just didn’t know if it was possible.

 

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever time we have is worth having. Surely the years have taught you to take what life offers and enjoy it while it lasts,” Phil told his friend.

 

“Let’s hope you’re right about Barton.” The door creaked as it opened. “Stay near the house; Jean and Oro are still working out how to extend the wards further. Not going to get you back just to lose you again.”

 

Clint waited, fading into the shadows; it didn’t take long before Phil appeared, walking towards him. “You knew I was here?” Clint asked.

 

“I came out looking for you; saw you slip out the door.” Phil stopped a few steps away. “You heard all of that?”

 

“Yeah.” He wasn’t sure where to go from here. Did Phil expect him to say it in return? “I just … I don’t know that I can give you what you want. What you deserve.” He ground to a stop then tried again. “I do care. You make me feel safe and wanted and I like that. But Fury’s right; I’m not the kind to stick around.”

 

“I know that, but I meant what I said. I’ll take you for as long as I can have you and count myself lucky.” He reached out a hand. “Come with me.”

 

Clint slipped his palm over Phil’s and pulled himself up. “Anywhere. You know that.”

 

The wind kicked up as they walked across the yard, rattling the leaves as they made their way into the trees, winding around trunks, a wandering pattern that headed them towards their destination. Every step stirred Clint’s senses, the forest around him coming to life. Squirrels darted along branches, stopping to chitter at the passing humans. A herd of deer, three does and four almost grown fawns, paused in their foraging to watch with big black eyes. A lone hawk launched itself into the air, wings spread, circling out into the night. They had no need of a light; Clint’s eyes adjusted easily, the auras of the living creatures showing the way. There was no need at ask where they were going; Clint knew in the same way he sensed the house they’d left behind, a bright beacon, and the power of the stone ahead, drawing them closer.

 

“First time I took my vows,” Phil began, “I was nineteen-years-young and knew next to nothing. Oh, I thought I was ready, but I had no idea what was coming. For every good year there were three lean ones. Hours of study with no progress. Illnesses I couldn’t cure, people I couldn’t help. Despite all that I’d learned, I began to question my beliefs.”

 

“Apostate. What Rumlow called you. I thought he was talking about your split with Erik, but he wasn’t, was he?” Clint squeezed their still joined hands, a comforting touch.

 

“I left the order for a number of years. Met Aubrey, got married, thought I’d have a normal life. And I did for a while. Until the war, Aubrey’s death and the schism between the US and European groves. I never quit believing, I just wasn’t sure that the robe was for me.” He parted branches and led them off the main trail. “But Nick needed all of us to stand with him as he put the pieces back together and I couldn’t say no. There were still days I wondered what I was doing, when my heart wasn’t in it.”

 

“Doubt is a part of the human condition.” Clint had heard that mantra over and over again during his own healing process. “When I was in therapy, trying to deal with the past and all the baggage I was lugging around, that’s one of the things I finally learned. If we wait until things are clear to make a decision, we’ll never do anything.”

 

Phil’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “A good lesson. Maybe we should both take the advice for our lives.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m still struggling,” Clint admitted. “At least you’ve got your faith; I haven’t found the something  to believe in yet.”

 

“Recently, I’ve begun to think Bridgit is just humoring me until I figure things out,” Phil replied.

 

“Sounds like something a god would do.”

 

They came to the edge of the clearing; Phil dropped his hand and stepped out of the tree line. “I’d like you to witness my renewal of vows,” he said, “as well as watch my back during.”

 

“Of course,” Clint agreed.

 

“It’s a sacred ritual so we’ll need to be sky clad,” Phil said, walking to the stone. “And, depending upon the response, we might have to give it a push.”

 

“Sky clad. A push.” A smile spread over Clint’s face. “You want to get me naked and jump my bones right here, right now.”

 

“Guilty as charged.” Phil pulled three votive candles from his pocket along with a small matchbook. “Time to make the dreams come true. That is, if you want to.”

 

“God, yes.” Clint’s cock stirred at just the thought of pressing Phil into the stone and kissing him senseless. He tugged his shirt over his head and dropped it on the ground. “But I don’t have anything …”

 

Phil took a hand out of his pocket; a foil packet and tube of KY was in his palm. “I came out to find you; I had a plan.”

 

Laughing, Clint kicked off his boots, peeled his socks down, and shucked his pants and underwear as Phil undressed at the same time. The chill of the breeze raised goosebumps on his exposed skin, but a fire in his gut warmed him from the inside out. It took three tries to light the candles and place them in their positions, a triangle with the stone as one side, apex pointed east.

 

“What do I do?” Clint asked, watching Phil settle on his knees before the stone, laying out some herbs that he took out of a plastic bag to place at the rock’s base.

 

“Stand just inside the far candle. I’ll let you know as we go,” Phil answered.

 

At first, Phil bowed his head and Clint shivered; being naked sounded romantic but in reality it was cold and awkward. He tried not to move too much so as not to disturb Phil’s prayer, but he ended up shifting his weight from foot to foot as the shivering grew worse. His skin seemed to recede from his muscles, loosening and sagging; his toes began to tingle and he wiggled them to get the blood flowing again.

 

“Bridgit, Lady of Bright Inspiration, Inspiring muse of bards, Patroness of Smithcraft Fire, Illumination of the Celts, hear my plea,[1]” Phil chanted. “I make my vow to follow your ways, walk the paths you lay before me, listen to your voice. Grant me your mercy and make me yours.”

 

A knot formed in Clint’s gut; he bit his lip to keep silent, an ache rolling through his stomach.

 

“Grant me your protection and in protection, strength. And in strength, understanding. And in understanding, knowledge. And in knowledge, the knowledge of justice. And in the knowledge of justice, the love of it. And in that love, the love of all existence. And in the love of all existence, the love of you,[2]” Phil continued.

 

The pain doubled him over, grasping at his chest; wrongness assailed his senses and Clint’s eyes watered as he fought against the Other trying to break free.

 

“Every day, every night that I praise the Goddess, I know I will be safe; I know I will not be caught, I shall not be harmed.”

 

Phil’s words cut through Clint’s head; he clenched his fists until his nails broke skin, drawing blood.

 

“Fire, sun and moon cannot burn me. Fairy arrow cannot pierce me. I am safe, safe, safe.”

 

The chant faltered; Clint dashed the back of a hand across his eyes, clearing away his tears, to see Phil shaking, his shoulders bowed, palms splayed on the earth. He drew in a shuddering breath and tried to keep going.

 

“You are a branch in blossom.” 

 

His voice broke and he sucked in a breath.

 

“You are a sheltering dome, my bright precious freedom.”[3]

 

Clint’s other half pushed on the wall and it rained down like a thousand dried leaves blowing in a fall wind. A fierce rush of possession overtook him; two steps and he was behind Phil, his hand dropping on the mark on Phil’s shoulder.

 

“In the center of the storm, there is calm. In the center of confusion, there is peace. In the center of exhaustion, there is rest.” Clint didn’t know where the words came from, but the power they incited swirled up inside of him, flowing through the skin to skin contact.

 

Phil jerked back, his head tilting up to look at Clint. “In the darkest of nights, my tears fly before you. You look into my eyes; with open arms, you welcome me and brighten my days until my worries become nothing.”

 

This, this was right. Phil was his and no one else’s. He was Phil’s and no one else’s. Phil was his center; Phil was his circumference. He was Phil’s calm; he was Phil’s protection.

 

“I am the fire upon the hill, the sower of the seed, the tiller of the soil of the earth. I am the golden warrior whose arrows are the shafts from the sun. The thunder is my hoof fall; the wilderness is my shrine. I wield the oaken staff, the elements at my call. By day I am the sun, by night I ride upon the wild winds.” The tattooed lines on Clint’s body came to life, curling along his arms, snaking down his legs, covering Phil and connecting them. Down they reached into the very depths of the earth; up they soared into the furthest reaches of the sky.

 

“God of the green, Lord of the forest, I offer you my sacrifice and I ask your blessing. Let me run with you in the autumn and bloom with you in the spring.”[4] Phil twisted around on his knees, never taking his eyes off of Clint’s face. “God of the green, Lord of the forest. I am yours. Take me.”

 

The world expanded and contracted with each breath. His fingers dragged across skin and history flowed through them. The winds lifted Phil, the earth moved Clint, and they were entwined together, bodies woven together by the very threads of the forest around them. Stone shifted to them, Clint’s hands splayed on the rock surface, his arms buttresses for his strength, Phil framed between them, laid out upon the altar for the taking. Lips were seals, vows made and exchanged without word. Time wound down, slowed to a halt as lovers came together for worship of each other.

 

There was only touch and taste and smell and feel. Clint’s fingers inside of Phil, Phil’s nipple in his mouth. Tongue licking along muscle, teeth marking curves. Harsh breaths exhaled, name moaned out loud. Hooking Phil’s leg around his waist, Clint pressed his cock in; around them, power swirled, drawn from all around and swirling about, building the tension, ratcheting up their desire. Every thrust Clint felt for himself, both Phil’s tight sheath and the jolts that wracked his body. A feedback of pleasure and need, spiraling into something spiritual, the joining of more than flesh, the merging of beings, the binding of two souls.

 

With a groan, he stuttered, balls tightening and then he was coming deep inside, pouring himself, all of parts of him, into Phil’s welcoming embrace. Walls shattered, every shred of control gone. He was Phil; Phil was him. The warm slick of Phil’s come covered their stomachs, the slick slide of Clint’s cock slowing then stopping.

 

“What the …?”  Clint lifted his head. A storm raged around them, whirlwind of leaves and branches, clouds circling, thunder rolling in the distance. They were the epicenter, the eye; as Clint heaved in a breath, he felt the full force of the energy they’d engendered slam down around them.

 

“Holy hell,” Phil whispered. “I think we broke the circle.”

 

An icy finger of fear crawled up Clint’s spine; stepping back, he caught Phil when he sagged forward, steadying him on his feet. Glancing to his left, Clint saw him, Evil, standing just outside the clearing. “Phil, we need to …”

 

“Clothes. And stay inside the candles,” Phil advised, grabbing his pants.

 

Never losing sight of their watcher, Clint slipped on his jeans, jammed his feet into his boots and tucked his socks and underwear into a pocket. The howls of the dogs rode on the wind as the first splatters of rain began to fall.

 

“Interesting.” Evil cocked his head and let his gaze linger on bare skin. “Looks like this will be fun after all.”

 

He was gone in a blink; hounds poured into the clearing, rushing the place where the man had been standing. Part of the pack branched off and circled past, heading for Phil. Before Clint could open his mouth to call them back, they surrounded Phil with their teeth bared; noses in the air, they sniffed, whining in their throats as they backed away, joining their brothers in the chase.

 

“We just well and truly screwed up, didn’t we?” Clint asked Phil.

 

“No,” Phil told him, taking his hand. “I have a feeling we just shifted the balance. Hopefully in our favor.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1] From the [Celtic Goddess Rosary](Lady%20of%20Bright%20Inspiration,%20Inspiring%20muse%20of%20bards,%20Patroness%20of%20Smithcraft%20Fire,%20Illumination%20of%20the%20Celts,%20hear%20my%20plea) by Tirgereh

[2] From The Druid’s Prayer – it’s often called the Druid version of the Lord’s Prayer.

[3] The Shield of Bridgit, another old celtic prayer. All of Phil’s lines in this section are from here.

[4] A Prayer to Cernunnos. All of the lines from the moment Clint joins the ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's one question answered. 
> 
> Cernunnos is the Lord of the Forest, one of the oldest Celtic gods; the image of the horned god appears in many mythologies. He's also the Lord of the Wild Hunt which begs the question of the connection between Clint and the God. I think I'll hold that one close to the vest for a bit longer. 
> 
> Remember that all of these people are descendants of figures of Celtic mythology and legends. Here Clint sees Bucky's heritage as an ancestor of Nuada Airgetlam, the first King of the Tuatha de Dunannan. He lost his arm fighting the Formodians; his friend made him one of silver and Nuada took back the kingdom. Couldn't resist that connection!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has to make a decision -- danger surrounds them and he's their only hope. All of him. 
> 
> And Clint doesn't see THAT coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is Thanksgiving here in the US; I'll be out of town, and probably won't have much time to write with all the family visiting and cooking. So the chapter after this might take a little longer.

“Okay, I’ve got it.” Charles slid his laptop to the center of the table. “Dain, Dub, and Dother. Dain is violence, a whirlwind of destruction. Dub is the gathering darkness, and Dother is the heart of wickedness. According to this, they were the sons of Carman, a powerful witch.”

 

“Any idea of how to get rid of them?” Phil leaned over to look at the screen. “And where to find the original story?”

 

“Let’s see, there’s a mention that the mother died and was buried in Wexford … Dain, Dub and Dother ... “  Excitement flashed across Charles’ face as he chased down the lead; he was truly a scholar, a man who loved knowledge. “Here we go. She’s a warrior-witch who put a blight on the Tuatha de Danann and turned her sons loose on Ireland. Although, that’s the Celtic version of the story. Let’s see … yes, the Irish said she was a Greek warrior from Athens who led an invasion of Ireland. She gets mixed up with the Greek goddess Athena, and her magic worked in threes. If she said it three times, it became true.”

 

“Like Beetlejuice,” Clint tossed out as he wiped down the nearby table. Phil grinned and Charles just ignored him. .

 

“The original tale is in the Metrical Dindshenchas. There’s a section on where she’s buried … the town is named Carmun … and the festival they have there to remember her grief upon the loss of her sons. Hmmm, let’s see … yes, yes … okay, here’s the meat of the tale. They came from the East out of Athens, ravaged the fruit … probably a famine or a plague of some kind … waged strife through battle and lawlessness … the Tuatha de Danann weren’t happy … Crichinbel, Lugh, and Ai fought them … oh, interesting Bechiulle was included so there was a woman against a woman … and they kicked out the brothers, banished them while the mother died of grief in her cell.”

 

“Of course,” Darcy said with a huff, pausing to look over Charles’ shoulder. “Boys will be boys, but suffer no witch to live. Sexist.”

 

“Don’t you have food in the window?” Peggy asked as she passed, a tray full of plates to deliver.

 

“You know I’m right,” Darcy told her as she went about her business.

 

Last night’s ritual still tingled along Clint’s skin; the closer he was to Phil, the stronger the effect. By mutual accord, they’d told only half the story of what had happened; taking Phil out to the stone to reaffirm his connection while in the 24 hour grace period made sense to everyone. That the Evil guy showed up, well, that was believable too. The part where Clint interrupted the ceremony and they basically fucked each other senseless didn’t need to be on the local gossip network. Nor did the new tattoo that Clint sported around his left nipple, an identical one to Phil’s, have to be broadcast near and far.

 

Phil decided to accompany Clint to the pub the next day, arranging to meet Charles there for a research session. Sam was on the grill, giving Bucky the night off, and Jane came in to take care of the books, a job she usually did for Peggy. She was settled in the back office, feet up on a stool with a pillow behind her back, adding and subtracting revenue and expenses. With Peggy up front, Darcy and Kate were more than enough wait staff for the early dinner crowd. There wasn’t a band on tonight, so the customers would be a different type, more likely to eat, have a few drinks, and move on to other things.

 

“It doesn’t track,” Clint said, refilling Phil’s coffee cup. “These guys are more like hired thugs; they run when the Hunt shows up. They just seemed to spring up in the last few days; pretty damn convenient, if you ask me.”

 

Charles raised an eyebrow. “That’s very insightful,” he said. “I happen to agree. I don’t think we know who the puppet master is, who’s pulling the strings. What we do know is he …”

 

“...or she,” Darcy injected as she carried the tray towards another table.

 

“...or she identified Phil as the primary target,” Charles continued undisturbed by Darcy’s interruption. “Rumlow’s attacks on Clint may not be related at all; no one could predict Clint’s car would breakdown.”

 

“So, after Phil’s out of the picture, who’s next?” Clint wondered as he started to bus the next table. “If the purpose is to get rid of the competition, they’d take out the top tier, make it easier to cull the herd.” When he looked up from wiping down the wood, he saw Charles and Phil staring at him. “It’s what I’d do,” he added with a shrug.

 

“Logically, Erik would be the biggest risk,” Charles said. “As the leader of the Grove, the assumption would be he’s the strongest. But they started with you which means …”

 

“...they know us. And if they know us ... “ Phil pulled out his cell phone; he raised it to his ear and listened to it ring. Five times and then a voice followed by a beep. “Logan. Call me. I think you have trouble following you.”

 

“Logan?” Clint paused, plastic tub full of dishes under his arm.

 

“He’s not big on following rules,” Charles explained. “Prefers to go his own way.”

 

“Yeah, I understand that feeling,” Clint agreed. “So who would win in a fight, Erik or Logan?”

 

“Really?” Phil said, a half-grin on his face. “That’s where you go?”

 

“Hey, I know you’re a badass.” Clint dropped a quick kiss on the top of Phil’s head. “No question who’d win there.”

 

“Oh, stop it before I get diabetes from the sweetness,” Kate said, punching Clint in the shoulder.

 

Just that light of a touch and Clint felt the bleed over of Kate’s aura, a light purple, raw talent that needed shaping. “Phil’s not on the short list, but Erik and Logan are. And you, Charles? Are you on their level?’

 

“Yes. I should be a suspect as well.” Charles nodded, following Clint’s logic. “But I’m not certain any of us are strong enough to wrangle these three. They might be hired muscle, but they’re top tier. Keeping them in line would require a massive amount of energy.”

 

“And while I disagree with Erik’s methods, he cares about his people,” Phil added. “No way he’d take the risk of loosing the Hunt and sending these guys against the Grove.”

 

“So we’re back to the rival God theory,” Charles finished.

 

The door opened and seven older women came in, dressed to the nines in their finest Sunday dresses and nylons. Carrying the tub of dishes over to the pass through, Clint started prepping glasses for iced tea as one of the ladies broke off from the group.

 

“Mr. Barton, I trust you are feeling well,” Marge Washington said.

 

“Better, thank you,” Clint answered. Marge had been one of the women who’d brought food after Rumlow’s attack. “You ladies out for the evening? You’re all looking lovely.”

 

“We’re off to see the Smoky Mountain Opry; they’ve got that magician, the one who was a student of Siegfried and Roy.” She smiled at Clint. “I hear you’re a bit of a handyman; my front porch is sagging on one side. Wilfred always promised to fix it, but then the cancer got him and he was too sick to do more than sit in his favorite chair. Bless his soul, even at his healthiest, he’d have made a mess of it. Anyway, you think you could come by and look at it? I’m home most every day except for Wednesday afternoon which is Women’s circle and Wednesday night for prayer meeting. And Sunday morning of course. And Saturday nights. And Thursday evenings; those are bridge nights.”

 

“I tell you what,” Clint answered with a wink. “You make me some of that fried chicken you brought over and I bet I can fix it up just like new.”

 

“You’re a good boy, Clinton. You make Philip happy for me and I’ll throw in some of my fried pies.” She eyed the ice-filled glasses on the bar. “You going to make mine leaded, aren’t you? A little medicine for my aching bones.”

 

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you want.” Clint delivered the ladies drinks as Darcy took their order -- chicken pot pie and a couple salads -- then went back to grab a pitcher and make the rounds of refills.

 

Icy fingers crawled along the back of his neck; the room lost focus and the walls faded. Forest encroached, the floor turning to leaf covered earth. Ahead, a stag stood on the rise, sun’s rays sinking into the west behind it, casting a glow over the white fur. It raised its head, looked over Clint’s shoulder then bounded away.

 

“Clint?” Peggy’s voice interrupted the vision. “Are you okay?”

 

“Something’s coming.” Pockets of … wrongness … alienness … surrounded the pub, moving steadily towards it. “More than one. They’re … I don’t know how to describe it but we’re in trouble.”

 

Phil’s cell phone rang; Clint jumped at the sound, falling back into his body with a thump. Whoever it was started talking as soon as Phil said hello, his face impassive, eyes darting to Peggy and Clint as he rose. “When? Where?” he said, taking the hallway into the back, motioning with his head for the others to follow. “Are you sure? Yeah. We’ll take care of things here and get right on it.”

 

Looking up as they entered, Jane’s welcoming smile disappeared. Pushing back from the desk, she awkwardly stood up, her swollen belly leading the way. “What’s happened?”

 

“Logan?” Phil said into the phone. “I’m putting you on speaker so everyone can hear at once..”

 

“Yeah, look.” Logan’s voice boomed out of the small device. “A group of hired men jumped me in West Knoxville; one of them said something about all of us learning a lesson. I think it was a diversion to keep me busy. Something’s going to go down there; I’m on the interstate, but I’m a good hour out. Erik’s not answering his phone and neither is Fury. Watch out for yourselves; stay indoors and boost the wards. I’m going to keep trying the others.”

 

The call ended and Clint said, “He’s right. There’s danger outside; I can sense it.”

 

No one questioned Clint’s assertion. “What is it? Can you pinpoint where it is?” Sam asked, leaning in through the doorway.

 

He shook his head. “It’s like pockets of … ill will? Bad stuff? Hey, I’m new at this, I don’t know what to call it.”

 

“Perhaps this will help.” Charles offered his hand. “I can concentrate your sight like before.”

 

Lifting out of his body with the first touch, Clint hovered above the room, taking in all of them including Peggy in her armor and Jane in flowing blue robes, hair adorned with flowers. Then he circled out, drawn to areas of foreignness dotted around the mountainside.

 

“Three groups coming from the East; humans, normal auras, four per unit. They … don’t fit.” Clint struggled to make sense of it.

 

“You’re reading their intentions,” Charles said. “Think of it that way.”

 

“Right.” Clint looked again. “Ah, they’re here to cause trouble; death hangs around them.” He turned his gaze. “Got … eleven coming from Settler’s Trail, more of the same.”

 

“20?” Peggy said. “That’s an army; whoever these guys are, they’re serious.”

 

Cold assailed Clint; a mass of nothingness slid through the woods, a total absence of any life. “There’s something else, something worse. Might be the one of the brothers …” A second absence appeared in the opposite direction. “Two, there’s two of them.”

 

“How far out?” Phil was in motion, Clint could tell that much. “Give me locations.”

 

He reeled off the details, estimating distance and travel speed without thinking about it. Too many, that’s what his brain was turning over and over again. He didn’t have his bow and there was little in the way of weapons. Even with Phil and Sam, the three of them couldn’t take them all. And there was no doubt that this was a full-out assault; he read no quarter to be given.

 

“Ten, maybe twelve minutes,” Clint told them all. A grim mood settled over the group.

 

“There are eighteen innocent people out there. We need a plan,” Peggy was saying as Clint came back into his body.  She took out her phone and punched in a number. “I’ll call Scott.”

 

“I can boost the warding on the doors and windows,” Jane said, absently rubbing her belly. “Charles and I can reactivate the spells on the stairs and the shrubs. Drive some of them that way.”

 

“If they’re just hired guns, the wards won’t stop them,” Charles reminded them. “We need to put out calls to everyone and buy as much time as we can.”

 

“Anyone tried Natasha?” Sam asked. “We might have a chance if she can get here.”

 

“I think Clint and I can hold them off for a bit.” Phil’s gaze was steady and sure as he met Clint’s startled look.

 

“Phil,” Peggy said, obviously waiting on hold. “Clint doesn’t know what he’s gotten into.”

 

“That’s not exactly true,” Sam replied. He grinned at Clint. “I’m pretty sure Clint can deal with this.”

 

“It’s time,” Charles told him. “We need you to be what you are.”

 

Let everyone know? Let them see exactly what kind of monster he was? Panic clenched his gut and his heart began to pound. “Can Phil and I have a minute?”

 

“Okay,” Peggy announced. “Jane, get to work on the wards and help Darcy and Kate keep the customers calm. Sam, gather up anything that can be used as a weapon.”

 

The room emptied in a few seconds, Sam closing the door behind him as he left. “I wouldn’t ask if there was another way,” Phil started. “It’s just that …”

 

“I know. We don’t have a chance without … all of me.”  Clint took a deep breath. “If I let it out again, I don’t think I can put it back.”

 

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” Phil replied. “Maybe this is what needs to happen.”

 

“I … “ So much doubt; sure, Phil had accepted it, but the others? And what if it overwhelmed him?

“Would you do something for me?”

 

“Anything.” Phil took Clint’s hand. “Name it.”

 

“Mark me.”

 

Phil’s eyes widened. “You understand if I do that, we’ll always be connected. That it’s permanent?”

 

“You calm me, center me. I need that.” Clint paused. “I need you, Phil.”

 

Closing the distance, Phil kissed him, a slow, sweet kiss that steady Clint’s soul. Then he dragged Clint’s shirt off and turned him towards the mirror over the bookshelf. “You’ve never seen the it happen; look at yourself, Clint. See the amazing man you are.”

 

Watching Phil bend his head and lick a stripe along his shoulder at the same time he felt the tingle of arousal was like double-vision. Even before Phil sucked a red spot, the other part of Clint was stretching in anticipation; when Phil’s teeth broke the skin, a flash of heat slammed into Clint’s gut. As intense as any orgasm and hard as a punch to his kidneys, energy blasted through him, burning away any resistance. He blinked and his eyes changed. He breathed and his tattoos began to run, purple ink shifting into new formations. He bit his lip and all the tiny parts of him merged into one fierce being that stared back at him.

 

“Your blood tells the story,” Phil said, meeting Clint’s gaze in the mirror. He wiped a red drop from the corner of his mouth and sucked it off. “You crave justice, care about others, want to do what’s right. All of you.”

 

The world flexed around him, Phil a bright beacon, their shared purple aura flaring bright. Every living thing in the pub paraded through his sight, even Jane’s baby, a flash of crystal clear spark. The encroaching men outside -- he saw their every movement seconds before they made it. He sensed the deer and the birds, the insects and the rodents. Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, hounds jumped up and he could read their intentions, the sudden burst of emotion, the thrill of the hunt.

 

That thrill ran through him; he was half-hard with Phil’s touch and the call of the woods beyond the door. A plan formed, his muscles tensed, and he was ready to go. “Let’s see what weapons we have,” he told Phil, turning to face him. “We go for the humans first; I can distract the other two for a bit.” Before Phil could take a step, this new Clint, the both/and Clint, caught him by the neck and kissed him fiercely. “I’m glad you’re mine,” he whispered against Phil’s lips. “And I’m yours.”

 

He didn’t pause to see Phil’s reaction; the chase was on and his instincts were already taking over. Stopping at the metal cabinet, Clint dug through the pub merchandise and pulled out two long sleeve black shirts, tossing one to Phil and pulling the other one over his head. His jeans would be fine, but bare skin would reflect moonlight. Then he went to the kitchen where Peggy and Sam were laying out knives, a shotgun, and one handgun. Both looked up as he entered, their eyes lingering on Clint’s face.

 

“Well, hot damn, Bucky owes me a twenty,” Sam said. “He bet you were just a really good ex-marine.”

 

“Bucky, ever the pragmatist,” Peggy agreed. “Now, how are we going to do this?”

 

As if he could see inside their hearts, Clint knew the two were stalwart companions, Peggy bearing the heritage of a warrior woman and Sam the wide expanse of the wheeling sky. Grabbing one of the paper placemats, Clint flipped it over and started drawing the terrain. “Phil’s going to prepare a few surprises for our friends, keeping close to the pub and the most likely access routes. Sam, you’re here,” he marked an X near the driveway, “so you can take out this group. Peg, you’re towards your house; keep these guys busy.” He circled to more groups of three. “I’m going out the back. Whatever happens, don’t interact with the brothers here and here. I’ve got a plan to run them ragged. Any news on backup?”

 

“I got through to Oro; she said Scott had been called out on an animal attack and the other deputies were all working a rash of last minute accidents. Probably all diversions. Steve answered; he and Bucky are on their way. No sign of Erik, Fury, or Natasha.” Peggy picked up the shotgun, made sure it was loaded and started filling her pocket with cartridges. “Jane, Darcy, and Kate are on customer duty. Get them away from windows and keep them as calm as possible.”

 

Clint picked up two of the sharpest knives, pleased to find they had sheaths to tuck into his belt. “Sam, you comfortable with the gun?” he asked, holding it out by the barrell. Sam took it. “Good. One last thing -- don’t be surprised and stand your ground. You might see more than just your targets out there.”

 

The cook and owner exchanged a quick glance then nodded. “Got it.”

 

He saw the others off, not going into the dining room but slipping out the back door and into the forest that encroached right up to the delivery porch. Each step made him sink further into the newfound synchronicity; here was his home, this place where he was himself. He stretched out his senses and located four groups of thugs, three coming in quickly, the other swinging around to flank the pub. When his mind hit the unmistakeable flare of an animal’s aura, Clint grinned to himself as he nudged the black bear, changing its direction to intersect and deflect them. For the closer three, he found a murder of crows nesting in the crotch of an oak tree; a few pointed images of bad men and promise of popcorn scattered on the ground and they happily flew into one of the clusters, startling them and driving them apart. A family of deer, foraging through fallen leaves, darted through bushes, into the path of yet another threesome, giving away their location when one of them fell.

 

Clint closed in on the last set, silently slipping between trees, moving fast; he used a branch to swing up in the tree, going still until he could feel the sap retreating from his fingertips.  They came into view a few seconds later, camo covered, automatic weapons and ski masks. Professionals, the three stepped cautiously, guns at the ready, on high alert. He let the first two pass, then dropped down on the last one’s head, clenching his thighs around his neck. The touch showed him a series of violent images of dead bodies, innocents, men, women, and children, killed for moeny. He snapped the man’s neck as he spun them to the ground. In two heartbeats, he knifed the second (crying women, begging for mercy) and took out their third (lust-fuelled knife strokes, carving up skin) Searching the bodies yielded no radio or earpiece, so he grab a semi-automatic and a field knife before tracking the next party.

 

Mercenaries like the others, the first went down easy, the second followed quickly, but the third got a shot off, reacting faster than the others. Clint felt the burn of the bullet but he had more important things to do; they’d lost the element of surprise. Time for a new plan; this had just become full out war.  

 

He sank back into the shadows, listening to the approaching footsteps. A sudden shout, the roar of a bear, and crows flew past him, a rush of black wings. LIke pieces on a chessboard, the players shuffled, breaking apart and fanning out. A shotgun blasted echoed followed by the bark of a pistol. His back to a tree, Clint grabbed one merc and swung him around (a rifle scope, three shots, a family gone), taking him down. They began to blur together, the blood in the men’s past overlapping with their death rattles.  Five, six … Clint stopped counting, just kept his senses wide open and reacted. When three rushed him, he went for the biggest first, using him as a shield, taking the strike of fists to his ribs before he got the right angle to push the guy into one of the others, tangling them together so they were easy targets.

 

“Hold it right there,” the remaining merc said, gun barrel aimed directly at Clint’s chest. “Nice and easy, put down the knife.”

 

“Really? And what, you’ll let me walk away?” Clint scoffed.

 

“No, I just want a better shot,” the man replied, squeezing the trigger. Clint dove to the left, not fast enough to outrun bullets, but the projectiles bounced off higher branches instead of hitting flesh as the man gurgled, tip of a sword punching out of his chest. With a yank, the weapon withdrew and the man fell first to his knees then flat on the ground. Behind him, Bucky looked at Clint, sprawled in the middle of a holly bush.

 

“Need a hand?” He asked; Clint let Bucky pull him up.

 

“Thought you were going to take it off there for a second and reach it to me,” Clint kidded, amazed that Bucky showed absolutely no reaction to the changes in Clint.

 

“Fight first, then jokes.” Bucky grinned, a fierce slash of upturned lips. “What’s the sitrep?”

 

“Sam’s got three of ‘em pinned down out by the road. Two more are trapped in a sinkhole in front of the steps; Phil’s on another one.”  Another shotgun blast; Steve appeared through the trees, dragging a bound but conscious guy behind him.

 

“Thought we’d question this one,” he said, dropping the unconscious man on the ground. “I hear Peg; where is she?”

 

“Keeping three busy near her house; you back her up, Buck, you get Phil and Sam.” Clint shifted his stolen gun to his left side to avoid the ache. “I’m going to keep Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum off-balance.”

 

“You can’t take them on by yourself,” Steve argued.

 

“Don’t plan to.”  The bear’s growl echoed off the ridge.  “Just have to keep them distracted until the cavalry arrives.”  

 

Steve’s eyes widened slightly but he nodded along with Bucky. “Got it. We’ll come back to help after we dispatch the rest.”

 

Good men, both of them, their auras tinged with tragedy but shining all the brighter. Worth every bit of trust Phil had in them, Clint thought, as he sprinted towards the first spot of absence, making no attempt to hide the sound of his approach. They already knew he was here; there was no need for stealth. In fact, Dub was waiting for him, leaning casually against a tree.

 

“Not a bad trick, using the crows.” Dub eyed him up and down. “Even men trained for battle don’t expect animals to attack.”

 

“And you didn’t tell them this was anything more than a regular hunt-and-kill mission.” Clint stopped far enough away for a safety zone. “Or they would have been more prepared.”

 

“Surprisingly, finding people willing to kill for money isn’t that difficult. In fact, you could say they were a dime a dozen,” Dub said.

 

A shout came from back the pub’s way followed by more gunfire. Dub raised an eyebrow when Clint didn’t even flinch. “Logan, Erik, Natasha, Fury … you boys have been busy tonight. Divide and conquer?”

 

“Seed terror; our favorite game as children. Mother used to let us play for hours with the people she brought home.” Dub turned his hand over, inspecting his manicure. “The simple things bring the most pleasure. Now, if you’re done stalling, I believe you’ve cleared the path for me very efficiently. There are innocents to scare.”

 

“No.” Clint put himself right in Dub’s path. “You and your other brother aren’t getting anywhere near the pub or those people.”

 

“Oh.” Dub’s eyes widened and then he smiled, a creepy slash of mouth that chilled Clint to see. “You think that’s one of my brothers? Oh, my dear boy. You are in for an unpleasant surprise.”

 

Without another word, Dub lashed out, an arm that spread and broke into pieces, wings extending as razor sharp beaks lashed at Clint. Dodging to the side, Clint managed to avoid the worst of the strike, but lancing pain broke out across his chest and arms as he threw his hands up to protect his face.

 

“Stop it.” Bucky’s voice rang true, his sword gleaming in his silver hand. Clint blinked, but everyone who stepped up beside him were filtered through his sight. Leather armor on Peggy and Steve, feathers dancing about Sam, and Phil painted with druid symbols that glowed with purple energy. “You’re outnumbered.”

 

Dub laughed, a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Too many generations have passed for me to fear your power. Diluted gifts of great-great-greats aren’t enough. We’ve been waiting for this moment, when the fruit is ripe for the picking and no one can stop us. So tell your shallow gods that their time is over. Ours is just beginning.”

 

With that, he exploded into dark shards that splintered across the forest, rising up into the branches and disappearing into the night.

 

“For someone so sure of winning, he beat a hasty retreat,” Sam said. “Methinks he doth protest too much.”

 

“There’s still the other one to deal with,” Peggy reminded them. “Clint where … oh my God.”

 

A wave of exhaustion was followed by the bitter sting of an open wound; blood ran down his chest from at least a dozen slices, most small, but two large enough for the skin to curl back around the edges. The gunshot wound in his arm still oozed sluggishly. As he waivered, Phil put an arm under his shoulders and held him upright. “Well, damn,” Clint murmured. “That’s worse than I thought.”

 

“Get him inside,” Steve said. “Bucky and I will go chase this guy down, see what’s what.”

 

They hustled him back to the pub in short order, taking him through the back. Madge Washington met them, Jane beside her.  “Get him in a chair in the office. I’m going to need a needle, thread, alcohol, and a bowl of ice. Lots of warm wet cloths.” When everyone just looked at her, she barked, “Do I look like I’m kidding? Hop to it.”

 

Turned out, Madge had been an emergency room nurse, only retiring a few years ago. She set about sterilizing each wound and cleaning them carefully before packing them with a mix of shredded raw potatoes and a bit of garlic. He drank down the whole glass of cayenne flavored water Phil handed him despite the taste. By the time the last wound was sewn shut -- in a neat row of tiny stitches -- Clint’s lightheadedness was receding.

 

“I’m sorry you missed the show,” he told Madge as she washed out the last rag.

 

“Ah, hell, this was more fun. Been a long time since I had this much excitement. Besides, I was planning on taking the grandkids when they come to visit in a few weeks, so I’ll see it.” She patted Clint’s shoulder. “Very nice ink, dear. Reminds me of my Wilbur.”

 

With Phil’s help, Clint got his henley on, tossing the black shirt into a plastic sack that Phil put with his coat. The used rags were in another one. “You okay?” Clint asked.

 

“I’m not the one bleeding from multiple wounds,” Phil bit back. He closed his eyes, sighed, and took a deep breath. “You scared me out there. I’m fighting the urge to take you home and barricade you in the bedroom for a few days, let me work on healing you.”

 

“I’m not adverse to that plan. Except for the part where crazy alliterative brothers are running around and people are missing.” Clint caught Phil’s hands and brought them to his lips, kissing the dirty and bruised knuckles. “I know you; you won’t rest until you hear from Nick and the others.”

 

“Clint?” Darcy stuck her head in the open door. “I think you better come out here. Someone’s calling your name down in the parking lot.”

 

“What the fuck?” Clint pushed up out of the chair and immediately grabbed Phil for support. “Okay, not a good idea to stand up quickly. Let me get my bearings.”

 

“Of for God’s sake, sit back down.” Darcy bustled into the room. “Don’t be such a martyr. It rolls.”

 

Phil bit back his grin as he eased Clint back down onto the seat and Darcy pushed him down the hallway. “If you laugh,” Clint warned Phil just as they passed the bar, rolling over to the front door where Charles was waiting.

 

The patrons were all gathered on the far side of the pub, away from the front windows. Food spread out across the tables as well as pitchers of soft drinks and beer. The fire was roaring, stoked to big flames and everyone seemed content at the moment.

 

“Don’t you be undoing my hard work,” Madge told him. “You need to take it easy.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, half-cowed by her authority.

 

“Clinton Francis Barton!” The voice was sing-song, part shout, part tuneless melody.”Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

 

Power slammed through Clint, a righteous anger at those who would put innocents at risk to get to him. Standing was easy, moving to the door simple, turning the knob necessary; he brushed off the objections of the others and stepped out onto the porch. A big black SUV idled in the parking lot, glow spilling from its headlights. Standing by the passenger side, the man’s face was hidden in shadows, but the most disturbing part was the total lack of aura. It wasn’t masked or somehow muted; this man had negative energy surround him.

 

“Well, well. Finally. Beginning to think I’d missed my chance to kill you.” He walked forward with a stiff gait. “Oh, and Phil’s here too! Hi Phil! Tell me, is that cute Kate inside? I’ve got an itch she could scratch.”

 

“You’ll have to go through me,” Clint replied.

 

“That’s the plan,” he answered.

 

“Hold it right there.” Steve came around the left side the building, gun at the ready. “Come quietly and nobody needs to get …”

 

A muzzle flash and the bullet ripped past Steve who dove out of the way; the driver shot another volley from the window. “Of course people need to get hurt. That’s the fun part,” the man outside the car said. “You always were too pompous for your own …”

 

He jerked back as the bullet slammed into his chest, a direct hit; Bucky ran forward and took shelter behind another car, gun at the ready, expecting a return volley. Instead, he man opened the car door, his face illuminated for the first time by the light spilling out. “Better watch you back, Clint. I told you I’d be back.”

 

Brock Rumlow got into the car, chuckling to himself as he shut the door so they could drive away. On the porch, Clint stood stock still, shocked. Bucky rose, staring after the retreating car. Behind Clint, Phil was speechless.

 

“Well, at least we know where the body went,” Clint finally said.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never been to Pigeon Forge TN, there are a ton of theaters with various shows, everything from country music to unexplained science to magic. The Ole Smoky Opry exists and has a big blow out Christmas show every year. 
> 
> Dain, Dob, and Dother really are the sons of Carman; the poem mentioned actually exists, a collection of very old snippets of oral stories. 
> 
> Who Clint is related to should be pretty obvious by this point; hold on for the next chapter when Nat has that straightforward talk with Clint that she promised. 
> 
> Peggy is the descendant of Macha, the warrior goddess, along with Sif, her cousin. Sam is a follower of Arianhrod who happens to be the goddess of birds and flight. ;D


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attack on the pub was just the first foray. Clint and Natasha have that talk, she tells her story, and Strike Team Delta finally comes together. Clint and Natasha reveal themselves, and she gets her Prime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Answers are going to start coming at a faster pace. We're racing towards the final battle now and the next few chapters are going to be a rollercoaster of danger, violence and sex. ;)

Logan arrived just as the last of  the restaurant patrons had been escorted to their cars, their dinners comped by the house. Darcy wove some story about star crossed lovers and a family feud; Clint was flummoxed that the non-locals bought it, but they did, chattering among themselves about a real life Hatfield and McCoys. It helped that they saw none of the danger, just heard a few pops then Clint and the others come back in. Madge had sewn up Steve’s arm where the bullet grazed him while Peggy hovered outside of her office, and as soon as Madge saw Logan’s bruises and bloody shirt, she dragged him into the chair.

 

The adrenaline was wearing off; Clint felt exhaustion creeping up on him, the ache of his wounds reminding him of their presence with every little movement. Whatever he was, he wasn’t invulnerable. He’d let the wall down and there was no going back; he couldn’t tell where he stopped and the other began. They were the same, both him. His senses fed him information about the surrounding area; auras pulsed with life. He knew where the hounds were, that the Hunt was chasing to ground a few of the scattered men somewhere in the Park.Ten minutes out, Scott Summers was barreling down the road in his squad car, on his way to the pub. The bear had ambled off, the deer jumped over the stream to find a new place to forage, and the crows reminded him with raucous caws.

 

“Hey, we got any popcorn in the kitchen?” he asked. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him. “I, um, sort of made a promise I need to keep.”

 

“Sure,” Sam said. “Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”

 

As they waited on the microwave, listening for the popping to stop, Sam leaned against the stainless steel counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “You doin’ okay?”

 

“Dead man just threatened me, but, yeah, I’m chill.” Clint managed a smile; it was all crazy, really. He was just rolling with it. Popping out the first bag, he put a second one in and punched in two and a half minutes. “Now I’m making a snack for some crows because I bribed Just an average day.”

 

“Pretty damn strange for me, I have to admit,” Sam said. “I mean, I know, theoretically, all this stuff is possible, but, yeah. You can call birds and bears and Brock’s back from the dead.”

 

“Hey, if you want to kick me out, I’ll understand. I mean, I don’t have a clue what I am or how dangerous …” Clint began.

 

“Dude, no. I’ll sleep easier knowing you’re there. Plus, it explains why Riley likes you so much; I was feeling neglected by my own dog.” Sam took the second bag by the edge and they walked to the back door. “In fact, I think Phil should stay until this is over. Darcy and Kate if we can talk them into it; Brock singled both of them out.”

 

“One stop shopping for the bad guys.” Clint opened the warm bag, careful to face it away from him, then spread it over the ground a few steps from the back porch. “Get everyone in one place for them.”

 

“Less collateral damage that way,” Sam argued as he shook out his bag.

 

Huh. That made a lot of sense. “Make them come at us where we’re protected. Yeah, we could work with that.”

 

“I did learn a few things in the army.” Sam laughed. “Only problem will be convincing Kate’s dad if we can even get him to answer his phone.”

 

The crows glided to the ground, chirping their thanks as they began to peck at the white puffs of corn. Clint wished them well and asked them to keep an eye out for any more trouble.

 

“You sure it was Rumlow?” Scott was saying as they came back. “It was dark …”

 

“You’re grasping at straws,” Logan practically growled at the sheriff. “If you’d been here, you’d know.”

 

“Not now,” Phil said. “We don’t have time for your sniping. This changes everything.”

 

Clint eased his aching body down onto a stool. “This is about Arwan’s cauldron, right?”

Eyes turned his way. “I read every book on Celtic mythology I could find in the school libraries growing up. That was one of my favorites; Taran the pig boy and Fleweder Flam. Munchies and Crunchies.”

 

“Alexander plays loose and fast with the original texts,” Charles explained. “The magic cauldron belonged most notably to Bran the Blessed; he sacrificed himself by going in alive to destroy it.”

 

“And we’re sure it’s gone?” Scott asked. “Magical things have a way of reappearing.”

 

“It would take a lot of power and magical energy,” Charles said.

 

“God level power?” Sam said.

 

“Maybe Cerriwden and Bechuille together, but they wouldn’t do it; that would be serious evil magic.” Charles shook his head. “What we need is someone with answers.”

 

“You thinking of communing?” Logan asked. “Going to be risky; they’ll be watching the stone. Whoever goes under will be at high risk.”

 

“Can we do it in Grandma’s work room?” Sam suggested. “She used to commune with Arianhrod down there.”

 

“It might work,” Phil agreed. “We can bolster the warding and try one at a time, see who answers.”

 

“While you do that, I’m going on the offensive,” Scott said. “Logan, you want to sit in on the interrogations?”  

 

Logan grinned. “How official is this going to be? I’ve got a few new knives I can bring.”

 

“We’ve got dead bodies, Logan. I can’t just ignore them,” Scott huffed.

 

“You are so damn lawful,” Logan countered. “At least let me use a truth potion.”

 

Scott gave a sketchy nod. “Fine. But that’s it.”

 

“What about Natasha? Fury? Erik?” Bucky interjected. “They’re still unaccounted for.”

 

“And Skye … Daisy? She might be able to track their cell phones.” Darcy shot a side-eyed glance to Scott. “Not that she’d do anything illegal.”

 

“We’ll contact her first,” Steve said. “Buck and I will track our missing persons.”

 

“I’m going to take Clint home.” Phil echoed Clint’s words from the other night. “He’s looking a little green around the gills.”

 

“You can take my car,” Sam offered. “I’ll drive the motorcycle. Charles, you’re welcome to the downstairs bedroom; you and Phil can get to work in the morning. There’s plenty of room left for Darcy and Kate.”

 

“Wait, what?” Kate turned her head.

 

“Oh, good,” Darcy said at the same time. “I didn’t want to be the whiny girl asking the big guys for protection but there’s no way in hell I want to go home to my empty apartment tonight.”

 

“Come on, you can borrow some things from my house,” Peggy said. As she headed for the front door, Steve and Bucky fell into step with the women.

 

“The buddy system works,” Steve replied to Peg’s pointed look. “Nobody goes anywhere alone.”

 

“Jane, dear, I need a ride; I came with Mary Ellen,” Madge said. “Your young man’s on his way, right?”

 

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be glad to drop you off wherever you want,” Jane said.

 

When Phil made up his mind, things happened quickly. They were the first to leave, and Phil hustled Clint into the house, sitting him at Sam’s kitchen table as he rummaged through the cabinets to make a cup of tea.

 

“Is that a special Phil brew you’re making? What’s in it?” Clint watched as Phil mixed herbs in a steeper as the kettle started to boil.

 

“Ginger and turmeric to reduce the pain and chamomile to help you sleep. A little extra top secret ingredient to speed healing.” Phil poured the water into the cup, sitting it in front of Clint. “But you should take some ibuprofen before we go to bed. You hungry? Best to take the meds with food.”

 

“I could go for some of that roast beef,” Clint admitted.

 

By the time he finished his first cup of tea, he’d eaten half the sandwich Phil made and was working on a pile of potato salad. Sam came in, Charles, Darcy and Kate behind him. The house suddenly was full-to-bursting, lights flipped on and voices bouncing around the previously empty spaces. Riley wove between bodies, nudging with his nose for attention and getting lots of skritches and under-the-table bites of food. In his new state, Clint clearly felt the house sigh, happy to have so many people beneath its eaves.

 

A second cup of tea did its work; Phil helped him upstairs, and Clint almost fell asleep standing up in the bathroom. Carefully stretching out on his back, a pillow under one hip to keep pressure off of a series of stitches, Clint dozed off, the sounds in the hallway not bothering him. When Phil crawled into bed, Clint oofed as Phil’s knee hit a bruise then huffed when Phil wiggled more, trying to get into place.

 

“Sorry,” Phil apologized, finally finding uninjured skin to lay his hands on.

 

“Need bigger,” Clint mumbled, starting to slip back into sleep.

 

“What?”

 

“We need a bigger bed,” Clint grumbled, turning his head and nuzzling his nose into Phil’s shoulder. “A King in the master.”

 

“Okay,” Phil whispered in reply. “Right in front of the fireplace.”

 

_“Come on, Edie! I need more punch.” The brunette pulled Clint’s mother away from the dancers, aiming for a table filled with food and drinks. “And that cute guy who’s been eyeing you is hanging out by the bowl.”_

_“Carol,” Edith hesitated, her cheeks flushed, her hair flying free. “I shouldn’t …”_

_“Of course you should. What happens here, stays here, remember? Let go. The gods will take care of everything.”_

_Phil crossed in front of Clint’s line of sight, talking to Pietro, moving his hands to punctuate whatever he was saying. It was an endearing habit Phil had when he was interested in a topic._

_“You’re wounded.” Her fiery red hair was pulled back in a loose braid, hanging over her shoulder and down the back of her white t-shirt. Brilliant blue eyes stared into Clint, seeing him from the inside out. “Has he taught you nothing? Of course he hasn’t.”_

_“Phil did what he could,” Clint argued. Whoever this was, she was probably powerful; her aura filled the space around her, tugging on Clint, drawing him in._

_“Oh, not Philip. He’s been one of my most faithful followers; I shall truly miss his prayers.”_

_“Madam? My Lady? I don’t know what to call you.” Clint tripped over his tongue; what did one say to a goddess? “Please don’t turn Phil away; I was the one who interrupted the ritual. I … I don’t know what I am and he’s been trying to help me.”_

_“My child, this has been the plan all along. Philip is prepared for the new role he will play; you, however, have been left in the dark far too long.” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Open your palm; we’ll start with something simple.” Clint raised his hand, palm up towards the night sky; delicate fingers brushed along the lines. “You can see auras, hear animals?” She waited until Clint nodded. “There’s more than that. Look at the trees, the plants, the earth itself. Life has its own power.”_

_The more he focused, the more everything began to glow, varying levels of brightness. From the grass to the leaves to even the breeze, power pulsed through it all, an endless loop that flashed and fluttered around him. “I see it. It’s everywhere.”_

_“We draw from Nature itself, each to our own calling. Take only from what offers itself.”_

_The forest answered, energy flowing into Clint, washing up his body. An aftertaste of willow bark in the back of his throat was worth the buoyancy that filled him. “Wow. That’s a rush.”_

_“Be wary of draining too much; that is a path to evil. We survive in balance. You may give as well as receive.”  She removed her hand. “Lesson one is for saving Philip. Watch over him; your first is always special.”_

_A hand wrapped around Clint’s wrist as Phil pulled him into the dancing, Pietro fiddling hot and fast. The night dissolved into a blur of faces and spinning bodies; the fire crackled as more logs were added, the flames reaching higher and higher. At the center of it all, Clint’s senses flexed and expanded, the whole forest joining them, all partaking in the celebration of life. The glow of energy pushed back the night, a circle of protection against the evils that roamed around them. Brightness flared and …_

 

Clint opened his eyes, sunlight pouring in through the bedroom windows.  Beneath the covers, he was warm and cozy, the lingering scent of Phil on his skin. He stretched, arms overhead, feet towards the door, rolled to his back and yawned.

 

“About time,” Natasha said, sitting on the edge of the dresser. “Thought Phil had dosed you with too much sleepytime tea. It’s almost noon.”

 

He ran a quick check -- no shirt but sleep pants, nothing but lingering aches. “Some of us earned a good night’s sleep,” he shot back, not bothering to sit up, lacing his fingers behind his neck instead and lounging. “While others were AWOL.”

 

“Ummmm.” Natasha raised an eyebrow as she hummed. “Don’t get cocky, kid. We’re just getting to the good part of this story.”

 

That sobered him up; she was right. They might be finding a few answers but danger still roamed in the woods. “What happened to you? Is Fury okay? Lensherr?”

 

“They’re banged up but none the worse for wear. The feint was about distraction, keeping us from the pub.” She grinned at him. “But they didn’t take you into the equation.”

 

A stab of fierce pride at what he’d done was followed by worry. He’d killed last night; how could he be proud of that? Rather than deal with it, he deflected. “Where’s everyone? I was supposed to work today.”

 

“Emma took the early shift; she’s got some fancy party to attend tonight, so Sif is filling in later. Phil’s downstairs; can’t tear him away from you. Charles and Erik are in the workroom, looking for answers. Nick’s with Logan at the police station.” Natasha swung her feet. “Just you and me; you ready for that heart-to-heart? Or do you want to stick your head in the sand some more?”

 

“Can I get dressed first? Maybe grab a cup of coffee?” He sat up and the covers slid down, pooling around his waist.

 

Natasha’s green eyes roved over his chest, lingering on his arms. “You may bat for the other team, but, damn.”

 

“Didn’t think I was your type.” Clint swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed a tee shirt, tugging it over his head. “Dark haired, brooding bad boys …”

 

“Don’t,” she warned. Clint let the subject lay, tucking it away for later.

 

“I need to make a pit stop; I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” he told her.

 

Clean teeth and an empty bladder later, he padded onto the green and black linoleum, making a beeline for the coffee pot. Phil, leaning against the counter, handed Clint a full cup; taking a long sip, Clint sighed as the liquid jolt of energy slid down his throat.

 

“Let me see,” Phil said, lifting the hem of Clint’s shirt. He froze, staring at the unmarred skin.

 

“I dreamt of Bridgit; she showed me how to draw on the energy of the forest to heal myself,” Clint explained.

 

Eyes widening, Phil’s fingers tensed. “Lay lines? You tapped a lay line? Druids don’t learn that skill until the third course and even then we can’t heal ourselves.”

 

“What else did she say?” Natasha asked, interrupting Phil.

 

“She seemed put out that no one had explained anything to me.” Clint took another swallow. “Said that Phil was one of her favorites, she was sad to see him go, that they’d been planning it all along, and that Phil was my first, which isn’t true. Sorry, Phil.”

 

“They’ve been planning?” Phil asked.

 

“Who should have explained things?” Natasha said at the same time.

 

“I think she said it’s been in the planning; I’d asked her to not blame you for what happened and that’s how she responded. She wasn’t upset; she said she’d been preparing you,” Clint said to Phil before answering Natasha’s question. “All she said was ‘he.’ That of course, he hadn’t told me anything.”

 

“Ah.” Natasha nodded as if it all made sense.

 

“Care to share with the class?” Clint was ready to put all the cards on the table.

 

She glanced at Phil then got up and grabbed a bottle of Diet Pepsi from the fridge. “No one knows this story, so I’d appreciate it if it went no further than this room.” When the two men nodded in agreement, she continued. “My father was in the Russian mob; he made quite a name for himself completing his assignments with extreme prejudice. Got sent on a job in Belfast, linked up with the IRA, met a woman; a year later she shows up at his door, drops me off and disappears. By that point, he’d risen in the ranks and was working for Vladimir Drakov.”

 

“Drakov?” Clint whistled. “He’s legendary.”

 

Phil and Natasha turned their stares on Clint.

 

“Yeah, um, I was in a bad place after I mustered out. Sort of got lost for awhile; I was good at what I did in the Corps, but there were too many questionable orders.” Clint shrugged, not wanting to get into it. “I was in Europe awhile; might have heard a few things.”

 

“We’ll talk about that later,” Natasha said then conintued her story. “Drakov had a strange sense of family; I called him Uncle and he saw to it that I had nannies and tutors. My father died when I was eight; by fourteen, Drakov called me his daughter and I was, in all ways that mattered, even if I didn’t share his genes. I can honestly say that Death was my childhood playmate; I never learned the names of the men who came and went, didn’t get close to any of the women that inhabited the villa. I trained with the best, learned to protect myself, to kill. He waited until I was eighteen to make his move, drugging me because he knew I’d fight him.” She paused, eyes losing focus as she remembered.

 

“Drugs, alcohol … makes it harder to control your other nature,” Clint said, filling in the blanks. “I was in Kuwait working a job when the news hit.”

 

Natasha gave him a pale smile. “I never thought of myself that way, as two parts like you do. I knew it was part of me that I had to deal with. After, I left the house in flames; the next year and a half, I cut a swath through Europe, not caring what I did or who I hurt. Finally, I woke up one morning, covered in blood, a woman sitting by my bed. She told me I had work to do, that she’d given me time to be angry but I had to get on with life.”

 

“That’s ballsy.” Clint refilled his cup and added sugar, snagging one of Mack’s cinnamon rolls from the plate on the table. “Who did she think she was?”

 

“My mother.” Natasha looked Clint right in the eye. “The Morrigan.”

 

Dead silence reigned; Clint’s brain slowly processed the information. The Morrigan was the goddess of death and birth, the female embodiment of the cycle of life. Also the crow of battle, she was one of the most powerful of all the celtic gods. If Natasha was her daughter …

 

“There hasn’t been a demigod born in over a thousand years,” Phil interjected. “The passing of power to a child is a risk; it upsets the balance and splits what’s left even more.”

 

“When has the Morrigan cared about trivial things like that?” Natasha snorted, standing and stretching her arm to grab a cinnamon roll. “She has her reasons for everything she does. Almost like she’s been planning something.”

 

“No.” Clint shook his head. “No. I know what you’re thinking and it can’t be true.”

 

She arched one elegant eyebrow as she took a bite of the roll.

 

“My mom gave birth to me at home; didn’t even make it to the car because she was fixing dinner and didn’t want to burn the roast. And as much as I don’t want to be related to that son-of-a-bitch, Harold Barton is my father. He was a jealous man; he kept her under a tight reign.”  He couldn’t be … even though he used to wish it was true, that someone else would show up at the orphanage, say he was his real father and take him away.

 

“You keep dreaming of her at a bonfire,” Natasha said, licking her fingers.

 

“Dreaming being the operative word in that sentence,” Clint protested. But it niggled in his brain, the memories of his father shouting about Clint being a demon child, the root of all their troubles. “It can’t be.” A changeling, Harold had called him. No son of mine. “Why would my mother do it?”  All those nights cowering in bed, hiding while his father’s voice echoed, the sound of fists hitting and bones breaking.

 

“When’s your birthday?” Natasha asked. “July? Or January?”

 

“June 18th. I was premature; happens when a woman gets smacked around.” He shrugged.

 

“Samhain then. Makes sense.” Phil’s voice was flat; his hands gripped the edge of the countertop. “That’s why the ritual … She was preparing me. All these years I thought I was hers.”

 

“She said you were one of her favorites.” Clint put his hand on Phil’s arm, a comforting motion. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I never meant to …”

 

“It’s not … I need some air. To think this through.” Phil pulled away and headed for the back door. He stopped, hand on the knob. “I’m not running, just to be clear.”

 

“Take Charles or Erik with you if you go walkabout,” Natasha reminded him. “They’re out there, just waiting to get a clear shot at one of us.”

 

Phil nodded then went outside.

 

“So you honestly think that my mother went to a festival, had sex with a god, and went back to her abusive husband so he could beat her up some more and drive her into a tree?” Anger flashed through Clint. “Knowing that he’d turn his hatred on the kid too?”

 

She never moved, chewing her last bite slowly until she swallowed. “Maybe she didn’t know; gods can mess with memories. Or she wasn’t sure who the father was. Or she thought you were important enough to bring into this world.”

 

“And where was this supposed divine father all these years? Yeah, no thanks. Harold was a bastard, but he was the bastard I knew.” Clint sat his cup in the sink; the glass rattled against porcelain. “I can’t do this anymore. I’ve fucked up a good man’s life, brought trouble down on everyone, all because some sperm donor years ago knocked up my mom? Not going to fly.”

 

He stormed out the front door and around the house to find Phil sitting in one of the chairs on the side path. Clint dropped down in the other, legs extended, and let his head fall back. “Fucking gods. Literally.”

 

Neither spoke for a while; Clint’s senses settled as they spread out, the forest sounds and smells soothing. Riley came loping around the corner, rested his head on Clint’s thigh and gave Clint puppy dog eyes until he started scratching the mutt under the chin. Despite his own problems, the Earth still rotated, the animals going about their daily routines of survival and the trees shedding their leaves in preparation for winter. Beneath his boots, the ground cooled while the dog was warm under his hand. Life, slowing down, the need to hibernate, conserve energy; a natural part of the cycle of birth and death and birth again.

 

Did it matter in the end? Trading an abusive bastard for a distant absent one? His mother was still dead, his brother gone, his life a mess of bad choices and regrets. What difference would it have made? Could he have used these new abilities to save her? Stop Barney from going bad? Remove IEDs from the road and prevent terrorists from using children as shields?  

 

“Fucking gods.” Phil snorted, a strained chuckle following. Then he began to laugh. “I’ve been fucking a demi-god. Bound myself to him. Fell in love with him. And Bridgit was in on it all along.”

 

“Not sure if that’s funny or sad,” Clint replied. “I mean, getting involved with the guy who rescued me? Making friends with a goddess of Death? Sticking around because I want more than a life on the road? I mean, I can barely take care of myself much less have a high priest asking me what to do.”

 

“Prime. That’s what you call a first druid,” Phil corrected. “Every god has one. Usually it’s the longest serving one still alive since, well, most of them have had worshippers for centuries.”

 

“You’re my prime? That makes you sound like a Transformer.” Clint looked at Phil. “I’m thinking … Alpha? Yeah, I like that.”

 

“So I can call you my bitch?” Phil began to laugh again.

 

“Omega, dude. Alpha to Omega. Get it?” Clint chuckled. Why not? Laughing seemed like the only sane answer.

 

“Obviously, you’re out-of-the loop on the whole alpha/beta/omega kink,” Phil said between chuckles. “How about we go with First like First Officer. Or XO. Yeah, I like that one. I can be your XO, Captain, reporting for duty.”

 

“You going to swab my deck? Raise my sail?” Clint wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

 

“And weigh your anchor,” Phil replied. “Don’t know what a mizzen mast is, but I’ll raise it. Wherever you set sail for, I’m onboard.”

 

“Phil.” Such a sobering thought, making a permanent commitment in the heat of the moment, the kind of bond that not only can’t be broken, but was necessary for both of them. “I want to have a place, somewhere I belong, but every time I think I can stay, something happens.”

 

“It’s not an either or proposition.” Phil took his hand. “I’d love to show you the Highlands of Scotland, get a room in a castle along the Rhine, celebrate Beltane in Rio.”

 

“You ever been to Australia? The outback is beautiful.” Clint grinned, the thought lightening his soul. “Always wanted to go north, see Alaska.”

 

“I hear Denali is worth the trip,” Phil agreed.

 

Riley tensed, head coming up, ears flapping as he sniffed the air. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he looped towards the backyard.

 

“What’s up, boy?” Clint asked, rising to follow. “Do you …”

 

A blast of pure energy swept him off his feet, knocking him on his ass. Phil, having only just started to get up, went over with the chair, pushed along the ground by an invisible force.

 

“NO!” That was Erik’s voice; Clint rolled up and tried to run along the path, but the way was blocked by a wall of power. Using his hand as a guide, Clint skirted along the curved edge; in the back yard, Erik stood at the top of the steps to the workroom, the doors blown open. A shimmering half-circle extended out from where he stood, the rest of the protective spell disappearing through the house and underground.

 

Two steps from the edge of the forest, Dain waited, four slathering white dogs arrayed in front of him; they advanced slowly towards Erik and the house, haunches bent, barrel-shaped bodies low to the ground. Saliva dropped from their bared teeth, blood red eyes glowing in their faces.

 

“Those aren’t …” Clint skidded to a stop. The hounds of the hunt were greyhounds, runners built for speed and stamina. These were a nightmarish cross between a rottweiler, pitbull, and something larger, more misshapen. Hell hounds, the special breed belonging to Arwan, King of the Underworld.

 

The dogs turned on him; anger, confusion, frustration … their turmoil lanced through Clint’s mind. A kind of madness had them in thrall, their animal nature suppressed until nothing remained by the drive to kill, rend and tear. Clint’s own ire was raised; how dare anyone bespell these beautiful creatures. Squatting down, he extended his hands, palms up; without thinking about it, he rumbled in his chest, a sound that turned into a low hum, the melody of an old lullaby his mother used to sing.

 

“[The water is wide but I can’t cross over and neither I have wings to fly. Give me a boat that can carry two and both shall row -- my love and I.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EfHZtCKJGY)”

 

Easing down, the dogs sank to the ground, their heaving chests slowing, their minds stilling. Soon, four snouts tilted up and Clint stroked each in turn, murmuring how good they were, how beautiful.

 

“Neat trick,” Dain said. “Maybe that’s the answer; you’re one of Fion’s dogs, turned into a human.”

 

“Stay here,” Clint told the animals, giving each one final pat. “When I’m done with this idiot, I’ll get you some roast beef.”

 

“You think to challenge me alone? We’ve been there, done that. Nothing has changed,” Dain scoffed.

 

Rising to his full height, Clint opened himself to the whole of the forest, every animal and plant and tree. They answered, all of the National Park pouring power for him to take, ready to clear this blight from their midst. Watching Dain, Clint’s sight focused in on the darkness whirling around the man who wasn’t a man anymore; he separated the shades of black, searching for any spark of life. There, in the middle of his chest, only an echo of ember of what he once may have been. As Dain spun into action, Clint feinted to the left then rolled to the right, skirting behind and jamming his hand into the darkness, closing his palm around the barely existent glow.

 

“Damnation!” Dain arched his back and struggled to break free. “You can’t hurt me. No one can.”

 

“You’re right on one count; your soul has long been damned to the lowest level of hell,” Clint said, gritting his teeth as centuries of acts of evil poured through him, overwhelming his senses with images so foul they left the taste of ash and blood in his mouth. “But you’ve got the rest wrong. Phil, hold him.”

 

He didn’t wonder how he knew that Phil could make the earth rise up, twine around Dain’s legs then torso, trapping his hands and keeping him in place. Nor did he question the way he understood that Dain would shake the ground trying to get free, tornado like winds whipping out from his epicenter, battering Erik’s protective circle and tearing shingles from the house’s roof.

 

And he expected Natasha to back his play as they spoke as one.

 

“I am life, the bloom of spring, the breeze that blows away the cold,” Clint said.

 

Jamming her hand in beside Clint’s, Natasha’s smaller fingers curled around his. “I am death, the fading blossom, the blizzard that wipes away the green.”

 

Dain’s struggles grew more violent as his eyes widened with fear. “No,” he protested. “It can’t be.”

 

“I am the hunter, the thrill of the chase, the relentless pursuit that cannot be escaped.”  Clint squeezed out as many evil memories as he could, each on powering his sense of justice.

 

“I am the warrior, the sharp silver that draws blood, the force that breaks bone.”

 

Murky smoke began to seep down their arms, a trickle and then a stream.

 

“Fuck you,” Dain spat, breaking one hand free and swinging to Natasha. It was Phil who sliced through with a thin piece of tin roof. “I’m immortal; not even the heroes of old could end me.”

 

“Meet the heroes of the future,” Phil told him, swinging the tin and cutting through his neck.

 

Blackness flooded into Clint and Natasha; Clint stumbled back, the miasma choking his throat and threatening to drown him. He tried to let the filthy energy go, but it rebounded on him, growing stronger.

 

“Clint.” Phil’s palms slid across his, gripping him tight. “Let me be the conduit. Pour it out.”

 

Their bond flared and the dark swirled through the tattoo lines, draining from Clint, filtered in Phil, and dispersed as pure energy into nature around them. The trees soaked it up, cleaning the last traces of evil, the plants distilling it anew for the animals.

 

When the last drop was gone, Clint sagged into Phil’s arms, opening eyes he didn’t realize he’d closed. “Oh, God,” he groaned sitting up … when had he fallen to the ground? “I think I’m going to be sick. I need …”

 

Leaning over, he vomited up the contents of his stomach in gulping heaves. A cool rag wiped his brow, a bottle of water appearing when he needed to rinse his mouth. He became aware of Phil’s hands gently massaging his neck and soft voices carrying on a conversation.

 

“... bond to work,” Erik was saying. “That’s how you did it.”

 

“... not much time left,” Charles spoke over him, voice strident and sure. “We need to get her to the Stone, contain what we can.”

 

Lying on the ground, Natasha was curled up in a fetal position, whole body shaking as she tried to contain Dain’s power. Sweat covered her cheeks and soaked the back of her t-shirt.

 

“Won’t work,” Phil interjected. “The circle doesn’t affect the three of them. Erik’s shield held him at bay once; that’s our best option.”

 

“I could try …” Erik started.

 

“That only worked because you were protecting me,” Charles objected. “It’s the bond, I’m telling you.”

 

“We broke it,” Erik snapped. “Remember?”

 

“Obviously not all of it,” Charles came back with.

 

“Bucky.” Clint’s voice was raspy; he coughed and sucked down more water, hoping it didn’t come back up. “Get Bucky.”

 

“No.” Natasha’s voice was weak and thready. “He’ll do it out of … duty. I don’t …”

 

An old Jeep Wrangler careened to a stop, spinning gravel from the driveway. Before the engine rattled to a complete stop, Bucky was out the driver’s door, leaving it hanging open and sprinting across the grass.

 

“What the hell, Nat?” He slid to his knees and cradled her, prosthetic arm around her shoulders, her head falling onto his chest.  One look at her glazed eyes and trembling limbs, and his eyes shot up to Erik. “What did you do to her?”

 

“She and Clint took in Dain’s energy,” Phil said before Erik could say anything. “I grounded Clint, but Natasha can’t let it go without help. From someone who has a connection to her.”

 

“Yeah, right, sure,” Bucky said. “Just tell me what to do.”

 

“No.” Natasha struggled out of his hold. “Tell him … the risks.  What will … happen.”

 

“Damn it, I don’t care,” Bucky argued. “I can feel the pain; even you can’t withstand this for much longer.”

 

“You’re an initiate,” Phil told him. “The amount of power will change you and that’s the best outcome. It could kill you.”

 

“Tell me what to do.” Bucky’s face grew determined. “I’m not letting her die.”

 

“I don’t want you this way.” Natasha’s eyes cleared. “We can’t undo it.”

 

“If she dies, the energy will release and regenerate,” Erik said. “Dain will be back.”

 

“Fuck you.” Natasha glared at the Archdruid.

 

“Nat.” Bucky leaned in close. “Let’s stop being idiots; we both know this was going to happen. We’re just moving up the time table.”

 

Her body quaked and she groaned, reaching for him. Hands clasped and she sighed as the darkness crept along her arm, crossing over and sliding under Bucky’s cuff. He gasped as it flowed through his chest and out through his knees. They began to glow, Natasha’s red mixing with his silver; she arched up and he caught her with his prosthetic, rubbing against her neck. Flesh tone shifted, silver pooled at the tips and washed up his arm all the way to the shoulder. Molten metal separated into articulated sections, fingers flexing and grasping her tighter.

 

Clint felt the power as it was filtered and reintegrated into nature, but Bucky’s rebirth was a firework that set off his godly heritage. He put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and let the words come. “James Buchanan Barnes, who lost your arm in battle, bled, suffered, and returned the next day to fight again. May you find the strength within to overcome obstacles. May you find the strength of will to fight against all odds. May you find the strength to turn pain to power.”

 

With a cry, Natasha sagged into unconsciousness; Bucky followed, folding beside her, arms still protecting her. Clint slumped back into Phil’s hold, exhaustion catching up with him.

 

Phil’s phone rang then Erik’s followed by Bucky’s. Sluggishly, Bucky dug in his pocket for his; Charles took it from his fumbling fingers and answered, seconds after the others did the same.

 

“Logan?” Erik said.

 

“Jean?” Phil said.

 

“Peggy? This is Charles.”

 

Clint tried to follow all three conversations, but his brain was operating on slow speed.

 

“When?” Erik asked. “Is she okay?”

 

“When?” Phil asked. “Is he okay?”

 

“What?” Charles asked. “Is he okay?”

 

Drawing on the now pure energy floating abundantly, Clint felt his mind clear.

 

“In public? With witnesses?” Erik sighed. “Does her Dad know?”

 

“What’s his condition? What’s the doctor say?” Phil touched Clint lightly, sharing the healing of the forest.

 

“Anyone else hurt?” Charles sighed. “I’m sorry about the store, but at least everyone’s okay.”

 

Bucky tried to sit up, struggling to pull Natasha as close as he could but his new silver arm wasn’t cooperating. With a casual touch, Clint included Bucky in the circle; he nodded when Bucky’s eyes widened then Natasha opened her eyes slowly as the energy spread to her through Bucky.

 

“We need to spin this the best possible way,” Erik ordered. “Keep her safe and separate until we figure out our next move.”   

 

“We’re on the way.” Phil began to unfold himself. “Get Darla as his nurse; I’ll grab my supplies, and be there as soon as I can.”

 

“Bucky’s here; Natasha’s fine, he’s fine, we’re all okay.” Charles pushed his wheelchair back and turned towards the house. “Do you need … yes, we can … keep everyone safe. No telling what’s next. We’ll keep in touch.”

 

They all hung up at the same time.

 

“Kate Bishop is at the police station; she shot Brock point blank in the chest in front of witnesses.” Erik offered a hand to Phil who then helped Clint up. “Logan and Scott are there with her, trying to calm things down, but there’s a video of Rumlow yanking out the arrow and walking away. We’ve got to go into major damage control.”

 

“Sam’s in the hospital. Rumlow knocked him through a glass window; lots of cuts and he’s unconscious from hitting a table in the restaurant. I need to run interference,” Phil told everyone.

 

“Dother showed up at Steve’s store, incited a panic. Quite a bit of damage to the art and Steve tried to take him on by himself. He’s injured but awake and telling everyone he’s fine.” Charles rolled to the door on his van. “Peggy needs someone at the pub so she can leave; I’m going to pick up Jane and we’ll close up for Peg.”

 

“Whoa, whoa.” Clint caught Phil’s elbow. “Buddy system remember? Buck & Nat stay here; we’ll get them inside the house where the wards will protect them while they get their breath back.”

 

“I’m fine. I need to go check on Steve; he’s a hard-headed ass who’ll lie about how bad his injuries are.” Bucky tried to rise, but laid back down quickly. “Soon as the world stops spinning.”

 

“Erik, you and Charles get Jane, head to the pub -- you can take care of the PR from there; Logan and Scott are at the station, let them do their jobs.. Tell Peggy to bring Steve here; he’ll agree if he thinks Bucky needs him.” Clint ignored Bucky’s protest. “Phil and I will swing by his house then head to the hospital.”

 

Pausing, Erik looked back over his shoulder. “Do not think I don’t understand what just happened,” he tossed out. “We are going to have a conversation.”

 

“Whatever,” Clint replied. “If you have answers, I’ll be glad to hear them. But right now, we’ve got shit coming at us from all sides and we need to take care of our people.”

 

Everyone stared at him in silence for a few seconds.

 

“Go kick some ass,” Natasha mumbled, sitting up. “We can deal with the rest later.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nauda was the first King of the Tuatha de Danann. He lost his arm defeating the Formain in their first invasion. Without an arm, he could no longer be king (talk about a group who need sensitivity training!), so he replaced his limb with a silver arm and retook his kingship from the terrible Bres. In my head I'm picturing a cross between the Winter Soldier's articulated arm in the movies and something ethereal of Elven make like Feanor or one of the great smiths of Tolkien's world would make. 
> 
> Yep, that's Drakov from Loki's taunt of "Drakov's daughter" in The Avengers. There's no doubt in my mind that Nat is very much the lineage of Morrigan. 
> 
> And, yeah, Erik might be dating Emma, but he and Charles have a bond; first thing Erik did was protect Charles. ;D


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has visitors ... in his dreams and waking hours. Too bad they can't just tell him what's happening; why do gods always talk in riddles? Plus, Gramma Wilson and sleepy morning sex. Oh, and Clint does something smart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me during the Thanksgiving holidays and these last two weeks of the semester. Next week is finals, but I'm almost finished with the next chapter, so it should be up on regular weekly schedule. Only a few more chapters to go with the big battle coming up!

(some Tara Jean cupcakes to tempt you before you read)

 

 

 

“Don’t you dare answer that!” Sam stretched from his place on the couch, fingers scrabbling for the handset. “Don’t you …”

 

“Hello, Samuel Wilson’s residence. How may I help you?” Clint said as soon as he pushed the talk button.

 

“Is this Clinton?” A woman’s voice asked. “This is Sam’s grandmother; I heard he was hurt and didn’t call me.”

 

“Oh, good evening Mrs. Wilson.” Clint sidestepped Sam’s grasping hands. “It’s lovely to finally speak to you. I want to thank you for your hospitality; you and Sam have been very gracious, allowing me to stay here.”

 

“Well, of course, you could stay. The door must be open for the gods to work their will; you never know who’s knocking on the other side. Just look at you, son of Cernunnos, sleeping in my Gwendolyn’s old bedroom. It’s an honor.”

 

“Ah,” Clint struggled for something to say in response. Hell, he wasn’t sure whether it was true or not and here was Sam’s grandmother in Florida talking as if his lineage was decided and well-known. “That’s not for certain, ma’am. I mean … I’m not really …”

 

“I’m tuned in to god gossip central. Arianrhod just loves to chat; you are all anyone is talking about, you and the Morrigan’s girl. Been a long time since new heroes appeared.” She laughed, the exact sound Clint always imagined a grandmother would make. “Now tell me all about Sam.  Roberta says he was in a coma for three days but Caroline told me he broke his arm.”

 

Sam was shaking his head, drawing his finger across his throat; Clint just grinned at him.

 

“Neither. He was unconscious for about an hour and had a whale of a headache for twenty-four hours. Argued the whole time they kept him under watch. Lots of bandaids and three cuts that needed a few stitches each. Big bruises down his right side makes moving around difficult, but he’s using Phil’s cream, so that’s healing nicely.”

 

Eyes closed, Sam sighed. “She’ll be on the next plane up here,” he complained.

 

“And it was that Rumlow boy who did it? The one excommunicated and brought back with the cauldron? I heard the young Kate put an arrow through his heart. Not that he had one to start with.”

 

“Yes ma’am. To all of it.” Clint didn’t think it was possible to lie to this woman who had a hotline to a celtic goddess. “Kate’s father has taken her out-of-town; no charges if the body is walking around town being seen by people.”

 

“Don’t tell her that,” Sam objected. “She doesn’t need to be up here in this mess. She’s safe in Florida.”

 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she huffed into the phone. “He’s the one getting thrown through windows. You tell my grandson that he needs to mix an Algiz and a Sowilo rune and add them to the wards.”

 

Clint began to repeat Mrs. Wilson’s instructions word-by-word for Sam and Phil’s benefit.

 

“Write it on aspen bark with holly berry dye; burn each one separately then bury the ashes at least two inches down. Jane Foster … no it’s Odinson now … can tie them to the earth,” she said. “That should keep the remaining two brothers away from the house so you can have a safe space.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Phil said near Clint’s ear. “We appreciate your help.”

 

“Ah, Phil’s such a dear; I hope he’s taking Bridgit’s defection well. She’s always been a favorite of her Uncle. Tell him I said hello.” Someone spoke to her and her answer was muffled. “If you don’t mind, Clinton, put Sam on. It’s almost time for my bunco group to arrive. Oh, and I can’t wait to see the new roof and windows. Sam still hasn’t sent any pictures.”

 

“I’ll make sure he does, ma’am. Nice to talk to you.” Clint very happily handed over the phone; Phil hid his grin behind his hand, ducking his head as Clint rolled his eyes and Sam began sputtering out explanations.

 

The last three days had been suspiciously quiet; after the multiple attacks on Sunday, they’d been left alone, a disparaging turn-of-events. It didn’t make any sense; Clint would have pressed his advantage, using the distractions to further his goals. Of course, he had no idea what their opponents’ goals were, much less what their plans were. It was frustrating and tension was running high. Erik and Fury were snapping at each other, Logan banned from the police station because he kept needling Scott, and Peggy understaffed and running short of patience with Steve’s inability to stay off his twisted knee. Worst of all was Bucky and Natasha who were walking on eggshells around each other, unable to say what they felt but more than willing to take verbal swipes whenever they could.

 

Sam’s house was still full. Charles and Phil had both called in favors to get their classes covered; Phil’s guided tours were cancelled for security sake. Last thing he wanted was to cause the death of innocent tourists when he was the target. Darcy was firmly ensconced in the other upstairs bedroom and was in talks with Sif to make a more permanent move by sharing a condo with a better view. With Steve staying at Peggy’s, Bucky was staying at the cabin with Fury and Natasha; Charles had decreed it best if the two of them stayed close so their bond had time to grow.  

 

They’d been busy making runes, circling not just this place, but also the pub. Jane and Jean were laying wards around people’s houses and even Steve’s store. But all of it, Clint feared, would come to nothing when the final onslaught began … and he was sure it wasn’t far off.

 

“What did she say to you?” Phil asked as they repaired to the kitchen. With Peggy operating on a holiday schedule with no late hours, Clint had worked Wednesday and would be on for Friday and Saturday. She had made the executive decision to close on Sunday the 30th as well as Monday the 31st; on Halloween, the pub was always shut down so everyone could attend Samhain festivities. Between Bucky, Clint, Peggy, and Sif, the pub was one of the safest places in town.

 

“That she was honored to have the son of Cernunnos in her house.” Clint grabbed a bottle of Harvestfest Lager. “Good God, Phil, I don’t even know it’s true, and she’s acting like it’s a done deal. Said Arianrhod is a major gossip.”

 

“Effie always has had her goddess’ ear,” Phil said, taking a bottle of his own. “You agreed he was the most likely suspect, considering all the attention he’s been paying you lately.”

 

They’d rehashed this over and over; the only god who made sense was Cernunnos, Lord of the Forest and Leader of the Wild Hunt. Running with the dogs, passing nods, being present in Clint’s dreams … not to mention that Clint had always been drawn to the woods, felt most at home there. Then there was calling animals to his aid, drawing energy from the surroundings; all paths led to one conclusion.

 

He was tired of talking about it. “I’m going to work on the roof, get the rest of the tiles off the back section. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get the tin finished on that part; weather calls for chilly but sunny over the next few days.”

 

“I’ll help with cleanup,” Phil offered. “Logan emptied the recycle bin yesterday, so there’s room.”

 

Roofing is hard sweaty work and exactly what Clint needed to settle his mind. Especially here, with the mountain around him, the breeze carrying the scent of pine as it cooled him. Phil literally grounding him, a smile on his face every time he looked up. As he caught the shingles with his flathead shovel, pulling them free, he began to sink into the environment, the bigger scope coming into focus. Big pockets of people -- Gatlinburg, the visitor’s centers in the park, Cades Cove -- and smaller ones -- hikers, campers, isolated cabins. Bright pulse of power around the stone circle; glows from protected places. Flickers of herds of deer, murders of crows, flocks of starlings, colonies of woodchucks, a family of bears. Ash, oak, rowan, pine, even weeping willows by the Pigeon and Norton and other creeks that fed water to the soil.

 

A swirl of evil threaded its way through the trees, cutting a path by Fontana Lake. Just a whiff of rot, a withered mold that crawled into his senses; his stomach rolled, his head began to pound, but he narrowed in on the dark thread, tugging on it to see where it lead. Along the North shore, it wound up a small creek; granite headstones rose from the leaves cloaking the earth in red, gold, and yellow. Mist floated along the graves, falling from the lip of the black iron pot.  The woman, her back towards him, wore a long brown cloak, only her hands showing. As Clint floated closer, she dropped dried herbs into the big metal pot, stirring the air with her fingers. .

 

“I see you,” she said, saccharin sweet voice. “Come out, come out and play with me.”

 

“Clint!” Phil’s voice called him back; he fell into his body and realized he was sitting down, feet hanging off the eaves. “Where did you go?”

 

“I saw it. The cauldron.” Clint’s hands were trembling, his whole body icy cold. “It’s between two old graveyards, somewhere north of Fontana Lake. There was a woman; she knew I was there.”

 

“Come down,” Phil requested. “Before you fall.”

 

He swung over and took the ladder down, careful to hold tightly to stop the shaking. When his second foot hit the ground, his knees gave way and he ended up kneeling, hands on the third rung. “She’s rotten, Phil. All the way to the core. The scent of death was all around her. And she liked it.”

 

“What else? Tell me everything you remember.” Phil sat beside him, warming him with his own body.

 

“Just the graves were old and … she was adding herbs to the caudron. It was covered in dark drops of blood.” He could swear he felt eyes peering out from under the limbs of the nearby trees.

 

“Graves. More than one?” Phil helped him back inside the house.  

 

“Near a lake, Fontana, I think. Up a trail … there were two graveyards, close together.” Clint sank down in an arm chair.

 

“There’s at least twenty-five, thirty boneyards near Fontana Lake,” Sam offered from his place on the couch. “And that’s just the north shore within an hour hike.”

 

“We need Charles on this,” Phil said. “He’s still with Logan, right? Let’s give him a call.”

 

In less than thirty minutes, Charles’ van pulled up, Logan’s truck right behind it. They wasted no time having Clint repeat what he’d seen, detail by detail.

 

“So who’s the woman?” Logan asked. “First we’ve seen of a female involved.”

 

“Probably Carman.” It made sense to Clint; if Rumlow could come back from the dead, why not Carman? “ More power, right? Maybe she’s helping whoever is shifting the balance. ”

 

“Damn. With the cauldron, someone could bring her back,” Sam agreed.

 

“Raising the dead was Dagda’s schtick; Arawn’s hounds are still hanging around out back … sorry about that, Sam … Who stands to gain the most if Carman and her brood succeed?” Clint asked

 

“Not Bridgit or Arianrhod,” Phil replied. “Cerridwen has a strong presence here already … I can’t see any of them wanting things to change.”

 

“What’s that guy’s name who runs the website with the list of family plots, the one with the website?” Sam asked. “He might know more specifics.”

 

“A group out of UT has a mapping project; I’ll put a call in to the professor who oversees it,” Charles offered. “We should narrow it down within a few days.”

 

“I’ll walk the trail,” Logan said, “see what I can find. Sniff them out.”

 

“Don’t take them on by yourself,” Phil warned. “We’re going to need you whole and healthy before this is over.”

 

“I can handle myself,” Logan all but growled.

 

“I don’t doubt it nor the fact that you’re smart enough to know taking you out would change the equation.” Phil shot the other man a steady look.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan grumbled. “Point taken.”

 

A knock came at the front door; Scott opened it when Sam called and came in. “We’ve got a problem,” he said. “The bodies are missing.”

 

“Of course they are,” Phil sighed. “Where else would they get perfect fighters who follow their every command?”

* * *

 

The first one appeared late on Friday; he took up his post off the Northeast corner of the house, just beyond the new warding line. Head tilted at an odd angle, his skin was pale, he eyelids unblinking. By the time Clint got back from work, three more had shown up, one with a gunshot wound, another with a sword sized hole in his chest. No moving, no breathing, just silent watching. Five more at the pub, two at Steve’s, four around Fury’s cabin.

 

“Seriously creepy dudes,” Darcy said, staring out the window.  “I don’t think I can sleep with them out there.”  

 

“We’ll take watch in shifts,” Clint promised her yet again; she’d been worrying the whole way home after she heard. Driving past the strange sentries had been unnerving. “You can have the morning shift since you don’t go in until noon.”

 

“You know where Sam’s grandmother kept her sewing kit? I’m going to pin the drapes shut.” Darcy walked towards the kitchen to see if she could track down Sam. Clint couldn’t blame her; the hackles on the back of his neck were standing straight up.

 

Everyone had spent the rest of Thursday and every free moment on Friday searching maps and talking to anyone who might know the location Clint had seen in his vision. They were ruling out graveyards, but not fast enough. Each hour that went by meant Spearfinger had more time to make more undead fighters, ones that wouldn’t be defeated easily. Rumlow had been noticeably absent and that meant he was making plans. Charles kept searching for answers, calling upon god after god; few answered and none of them said anything more than what was already known.

 

Bucky had been behind the grill; despite the changes he was dealing with, he managed to keep on top of the steady orders. Blowing straight past three levels of training to become Natasha’s Prime was quite an adjustment, but having a new silver magical arm had really thrown a kink in Bucky’s life. He covered it with a long sleeve hoodie and a thin black glove; getting used to the weight and heft of an appendage that reacted to his thoughts was going to take longer. Two crushed spatulas and a dent in the kitchen door were easy to fix; Bucky was worried about inadvertently hurting someone.

 

It was actually a relief to have someone else to talk to, Clint realized. Now that he and Phil weren’t in this on their own, he was starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, he could handle it. Be whatever he was free and clear, have a relationship with a potential future, settle in one place. Of course the whole ‘witches and gods out to kill them’ had to be dealt with, but Clint was familiar with being in the crosshairs.

 

“I’ll take the midnight shift,” Clint told Charles. “Let Phil sleep; he deserves it.”

 

“You’re the one who worked all day,” Phil protested, but he had circles under his eyes from pouring over tiny printed text and staring at a computer screen. He hadn’t come to bed last night for more than three hours before he was up again.

 

“Which is why I’m going to bed now and get a good four hours before I get up.” Clint tugged at Phil’s arm.  “Come on; maybe one of us will dream the answer.”

 

_The horse whinnied, shying away from the man blocking the path. Pulling up on the reins, Clint brought the horse to a halt and faced Rumlow._

_“What’s death like?” Clint asked._

_“Not hot like they teach at Sunday school. Cold, icy, frozen bones and balls,” Rumlow answered._

_“And yet you haven’t changed,” Clint said. “Dead or not, you’re still a mean son-of-a-bitch.”_

_“Momma was a bitch, I’ll give you that.” He gave a hollow laugh. “But that thing walking around isn’t me. It does what its masters tell it.”_

_He was tied to the sacrificial stone, cuts oozing blood; Clint held the bow steady, arrow aimed right at his heart._

_“I’m supposed to believe that?” Clint’s fingers tensed on the string. “Carman didn’t deliver on her promises?”_

_“Carman.” Rumlow sat up leaving red streaks on the grey stone. “She’s a fool; only cares about herself and those inbred sons. No, I misjudged just how pissed off Arawn would be; seems he wasn’t in on the plan like I thought. It’s so easy for gods to lie, to masquerade as something they’re not.”_

_“Who lied to you, Brock?” Clint turned his back on the fire, keeping his eye on the shadowy form. “Give me something to work with.”_

_“Look, they won’t let me tell you too much, but this I can say. Carman’s going to make a play for you now that she knows what you are.  But don’t let her distract you from the real danger; follow the power trail. Cut it off and balance things again.” He began to fade away._

_“Wait! Just tell me who’s behind this!”  Clint chased the wisps as they floated away. “Damn it, can’t anyone give me a straight answer.”_

_“If you’re waiting for me to do my best Vader voice, you’re out-of-luck.”_

_For once, Cernunnos was in human form, brown hair long and pulled back in a man bun, all-to-familiar blue eyes glittering in the echoes of the firelight. Clad in jeans, plaid shirt, and hoodie, he appeared to be the same age as Clint._

_“Too much to ask, isn’t it?” Clint said. “Hey, Clint, the bad guy is fill-in-the-blank and here’s what you do to get rid of them.”_

_“I’m not omnipotent,” Cernunnos replied. “But you destroy the cauldron with a sacrifice of the living. Put a breathing human being in there and boom. All gone.”_

_“Okay, that’s a start. So, to quote Maury, are you the father?” Might was well go for broke, Clint thought to himself._

_“Yes, I am. Although I have to admit I didn’t know about you until that incident in Iraq; you ran afoul of one Kali’s priests, and she became aware of your existence,” he said, hooking his thumbs into his pockets. “Quite a surprise, I must say. I knew your mother was special, but Danu kept her little plan to herself.”_

_“Honestly, you didn’t know? From what I hear, part of your power came to me; seems that would get your attention.” Clint wasn’t sure if he believed it or not._

_“My reserves are vast,” he replied. “I am the same in many places, one god in multiple pantheons. Slightly different names, but all worship comes to me. So, yes, I could lose an amount and not notice.”_

_“So my father? My mother’s death? Barney? You had nothing to do with any of it?” Clint asked for clarification._

_“I mourn your mother’s passing. Had I known, I would have taken her from that cretin and given you both a better life.” His passion was so strong Clint could sense the truth in the statement. “For failing you, I will pay penance by aiding you in this fight. “_

_“Thanks. I think.” Clint hesitated. “So, want to tell me what to do? ‘Cause I could really use some Dad advice right about now.”_

_Cernunnos laughed. “I can speak in riddles and give you vague statements that will make sense afterwards,” he said._

_“Of course you can,” Clint said with a sigh. “Well, let me have it.”_

_“There are seasons of life -- birth, youth, marriage, old age, death -- and the cycle is unending. Your time is coming; others’ are ending. We cannot stop change; it is the only constant.”_

_“Yep, obscure and useless.” Clint sighed. “I may as well …”_

 

The bedside clock read 11:55 p.m. Clint stared up at the ceiling, wide awake, Phil snuggled up beside him, snoring lightly. He slipped out from under the covers, pulling on the jeans he’d left hung over the back of a chair and zipping up the new hoodie Darcy had handed him after she went shopping last week. Padding downstairs in his sock feet, Clint topped at the bottom to slip on his boots; Charles was sitting at the dining room table, computer glowing in the dark.

 

“No movement,” he reported. “If you sit here, you can see the back and the front door and most of the windows. I’m beat; the words are bleeding together and nothing makes sense.”

 

After he said goodnight to Charles, Clint slathered mayonnaise on two slices of bread and loaded up a roast beef sandwich. The coffee pot was half full; he warmed up a cup and sat down at the table; pulling up Google, he typed in “celtic mythology rebirth” and clicked on the first entry, determined to find some sort of answer in Cernunnos’ cryptic statements.

 

At 3:37 a.m., his phone vibrated on the wooden table, a text message appearing.

 

*You awake, boy?*

 

He picked it up and looked at the unfamiliar number. A second message followed.

 

*Got a deal to offer you, limited time, take it or leave it*

 

Glancing at both doors and windows, Clint counted the number of watchers; they were all accounted for.

 

*Who is this?* he replied.

 

*Look by the garage* came the quick answer. Stepping into the light, Rumlow held up his phone and waggled it Clint’s way then typed, *Much as I don’t want to, I’m to deliver a message. You come alone, tomorrow, at 5 p.m., give yourself up with no fuss, and we promised that Phil will survive*

 

*Right.* Clint snorted to himself; who’d believe that? *Like I’m that stupid*

 

*One-on-one combat by chosen champions is a time honored tradition* Rumlow came back with. *You win, everyone lives. I win, your ass is mine, we get the Grove, but Phil lives*

 

*Yeah no* Clint typed.

 

*Listen. You scared her. She’s mad with grief over her son and willing to give up Phil if she gets you. Doesn’t really matter anyway now that he’s your Prime. The plan was always to lessen Bridgit’s hold on the Grove; that’s been accomplished either way*

 

*She assumes I’m going to lose?*

 

*Thinks she’s invincible* Rumlow was quiet for a few seconds. *But she’ll honor her promise. I know that much*

 

Clint thought about it. It was a trap, no doubt about it, but could he make it work for them? To get close enough to the cauldron to shut it down? In the middle of a fight, he might manage it. End the spell and all the undead would go back to being dead. That still left the two brothers and their mom, but with far less power. Maybe he could take one of them with him.

 

*You there? I need an answer*

 

Before he could talk himself out of it, Clint replied, *I’m in*

 

He didn’t sleep much; after Sam relieved him, Clint crawled in bed with Phil and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Instead, he dozed and dreamed, snatches that made no sense, just isolated images. Bridgit offering him a drink, his mother sharing some of Grandma Wilson’s punch with a dark-haired Cernunnos, Phil mixing a cup of herbal tea. Astride a horse, riding through the night, chasing down shadows of men that darted among the trees. Falling into a dark iron hole, the world collapsing to a small circle of light. Natasha laughing, her knife red with blood. Dead sightless eyes staring up at him from a pile of bodies. Barking hounds and the cry of the damned.

 

Phil’s long slow breaths synced with Clint senses, keeping him calm amid the chaos of his subconscious world. The sun rose, light filtering into the room. Creaks of floorboards signaled people waking, the clink of glasses, smell of coffee, whoosh of the dishwasher starting. The little dashes on the clock shifted, darting from one side to another, disappearing then returning. The town began its day, traffic filled the roads, tourist fled to the relative quiet of the woods. All so normal and expected that Clint felt the chism rip open, pushing the world into the realm of the unreal and leaving him in the land of magic and dreams.

 

Idly he trailed a hand down Phil’s back, the welcome weight of him covering half of Clint’s chest. He imagined Phil learning what Clint had done, knowing instantly as it spread across their bond. Phil would be alright, he told himself, because Bridgit had planned. A tight twist in his chest, near his heart, and his heart missed a beat when he thought about it. He didn’t want this to end:  Phil sleeping peacefully in their bed, kissing him senseless, centering him, loving him.

 

HIs cock stirred as he dragged his fingers along Phil’s side, brushing his nipples with a thumb. Long, lazy mornings slipped into Clint’s mind, snowy days with nowhere to go, fire in the grate, maybe a dog curled on the end of the bed. He brushed his lips along the curve of Phil’s temple, shifting them onto their sides so he could kiss Phil properly, sleep slack mouth so soft and inviting. Evenings with friends, house filled with body heat and laughter and lots of good food. Clint’s hand cupped Phil’s upper thigh and pulled the leg up, resting Phil’s knee on Clint’s hip. He dipped his head, teased one of the pert nubs with his tongue, then leisurely explored the angle of Phil’s neck, line of his shoulder, vee of his collarbone, memorizing them. At some point, Phil’s hands crawled up Clint’s waist, gripping him as Phil woke, eyes easing open just as Clint’s lips touched the corner of Phil’s chin where jaw met his earlobe.

 

Blue irises, foggy and not yet completely awake, stared at Clint, a small sigh escaping his lips. Never taking his gaze from those amazing eyes, Clint spread his palm and cradled Phil’s face. Possible futures flickered before him; muddy boots, cold toes, hiking the HIghlands, returning to their room, a hot shower, a roaring fire, to see the mist descend over the mountains. Peggy and Steve’s wedding, Jane’s baby, Darcy’s graduation. Watching Natasha and Bucky try not to kill each other. A hammer in his hand, drywall going up, making Phil’s house a home.

 

Between one heartbeat and the next, he decided. Rolling Phil onto his back, Clint angled them across the bed, covering Phil’s body with his own; he licked his way into Phil’s mouth, a deep kiss without reservation. Parting Phil’s legs, he settled between them, rolling his hips; relentless, Clint pushed them both to full hardness, only stopping to tug down their sleep pants and underwear before he was breathless, aching with the feel of Phil beneath him.

 

It wasn’t just lust, even desire; he felt Phil’s arousal too, the flood of emotions that overloaded both their senses. The tattoos swirled both on their skin and inside Clint’s head, a connection that wound around his heart and tied him tight. As he neared his orgasm, Clint’s senses condensed and grew exponentially. With a groan, he arched his back and splattered come over Phil’s chest; his release triggered Phil’s and they collapsed in a heap together.

 

“Good morning to you too,” Phil finally said.

 

Lifting up on his elbows, Clint replied. “It’s after ten, so I’m not sure that’s morning anymore.”

 

“Still a nice way to wake up,” Phil countered.

 

Bending his head for a long, slow kiss, Clint sighed and rested his forehead on Phil’s. “On that we can agree.”

 

“You know, for a second or two, I thought that was goodbye sex.” Phil rubbed his hands along Clint’s side. “Like maybe you were going to say you were heading out for a minute and not come back.”

 

“I’m not running,” Clint promised. “It’s just … I realized how much I want this. Friends. A place I feel wanted. How important you are to me.”

 

Phil examined Clint’s face, searching for something in his eyes. “Oh, God. A sacrifice play? You listen to me, Clint Barton. You are not going off on your own with some hairbrained idea to save everyone. We’re in this together; where you go, I go.”

 

“I’m not. Well, I decided not to despite Rumlow’s invitation. I’m going to tell you all about it and we’ll decide what to do,” Clint snuck a quick kiss in before Phil could reply. “They won’t be expecting that; heroes always take the deal and offer up themselves. Good thing I’m not a hero, huh?”

 

“I like you just the way you are,” Phil told him. “Now let’s call in the troops and make a plan.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The black cauldron does bring bodies back to life sans their soul. That's why it's considered evil. 
> 
> Cernunnos is widely worshiped under many names. My favorite is actually Herne the Hunter from a small part of Southern England. Plus he rides a horse and shoots a bow and arrow, so who could ask for more. Oh, and loves dogs. 
> 
> Always wanted to write a story where the hero goes, "sure, I'll come alone" then immediately tells everyone. Think to myself, "that would be smart." Let's see how it turns out.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's showdown time and Clint didn't come alone -- he brought friends. A trickster is revealed, a goddess intervenes, and a sacrifice is made. Plus, a baby is born. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end. 18 is the final chapter count and the next one is already written, so just one more for me to work on. 
> 
> I struggled with the events in the chapter, but, in the end, went with what made the most sense to me. 
> 
> A big thanks, hugs and kisses to all of you who have left kudos and comments. I look forwards to hearing what you have to say and, yes, sometimes your suggestions are better than what I had planned. You make it all so worth it to know I'm giving people pleasure with my writing.

Clint took the curve fast, leaning to the left, his knee almost brushing the asphalt as he steadied himself. Giving the motorcycle gas, he sped up in the straight away, wind whipping at the sleeves of his leather jacket. At the higher elevations on Highway 411, the weather had been downright cold despite the wan sun in the sky. Nearing the turn off of Route 19 onto Lakeview Drive Northeast, he was only forty five minutes out from his destination according to his GPS. The text with coordinates had arrived at five minutes after 1 o’clock; with an estimated travel time of two and a half hours, including a short hike up the Norton Creek trail, Clint had headed out almost immediately for his rendezvous with Carman.  He took only his leather jacket, his bow and quiver, and one knife.

 

Plotting with unblinking eyes watching their every move wasn’t easy, but they’d managed thanks to foresight and ingenuity. Logan was already on the North Carolina side, walking the Lake trail in his search of graveyards; he had Sam and Steve with him, so they could cover more ground. Charles and Erik were at the house, and a stop at the pub for a quick lunch netted them planning time with Bucky, Darcy, and Peggy. From there, the word spread easily through phone calls; there was nothing odd about Bucky going back to Natasha and Fury or Peggy calling Jean who notified Scott. Emma was already coming in for the night shift, Sif was on call, and Charles could just as easily establish a connection with Erik and the others while running the pub. The only problem was the phone call from Thor that Jane had gone into labor; happy news, to be sure, but that meant Thor was unavailable.

 

It was just a two mile hike to the upper and lower Norton cemeteries, up an old logging road that was only used now for decoration days. If he hadn’t had the actual coordinates, he wouldn’t have found the small marker that led past a collection of very old headstones, most listing to the side and weathered down, and up a rise to a second small plot. The first watcher stood where the road cut off from the main trail; the closer Clint got, the more there were, all of them products of the cauldron. It was as if they had killed the mercenaries just to bring them back, make them malleable and easy to control. That thought sickened him; there was no way they planned to honor their promises. With each step, he was glad he’d told Phil and the others rather than try to do this by himself.

 

Rumlow waited in the small hollow between the two graveyards; next to him was an old iron pot, round bottom propped up by rocks, circular opening emitting a pale mist. Not far were three bodies, laid out upon the ground, awaiting their turn in the cauldron. Closing in behind him were a spot of darkness and another of evil -- Dub and Dother. And right in front of him, intense green eyes taking in his every move, was a raven-haired woman who had to be Carman. He recognized her; she’d been in the pub a number of times, hanging out on a bar stool, flirting with Logan. In her skinny jeans, simple grey t-shirt and leather jacket, she could have been any Grove member out for walk in the woods.

 

“You came,” she said with a cock of her head. “I really didn’t think you were that stupid. But then, your father isn’t the smartest either.”

 

“Wouldn’t know about him, but I do tend to make bad decisions. It’s one of my endearing qualities.” He moved around the cauldron until he could see the two sons as well as the mother. “So, you plan to kill me and toss me in the pot so you can control a demigod. Exactly how’s that going to work? I took out one of your sons already and that was before I knew what I could do.”

 

Her face hardened; she clenched her fists and green lightning crackled around them. “You will not speak to me that way. I will burn you where you stand with only a word.”

 

“You can try.” He threw open his senses and let the power flow in. “But I’ll take you with me.”

 

“Do not tempt me,” she hissed.

 

Clint side stepped closer to the cauldron, casually reaching out a hand. “Looks like something you’d see in a western,” he said, letting his palm hover over the curved edge. Vibrations rattled his bones, rolling up his arm; he couldn’t imagine what touching it would be like. “All this fuss over something that should be filled with franks and beans.”

 

“We should let you put your hand on it,” Dub said. “Knock your arrogance down a peg.”

 

 “Don’t even suggest it, boy,” Carman snapped. “You know what will happen. Now drag him away from there before he gets ideas.”

 

Dother winced and let out a little sigh; Dub was the one who made a grab for Clint’s arm.

 

“Now, now,” Clint chided as he moved out of range. “Remember what happened to your brother. I scattered him to the four winds.”

 

“Bastard.” Dub growled, low and menacing. “Just how did a runt like you manage it?”

 

“The cycle of life comes to an end for everyone and everything,” Clint said. “It was his time … and now it’s yours. Have to say, it’s not much of a loss.”

 

The witch’s hands shook. “Take care what you say,” she ground out. “Those are my children you speak of.”

 

“Well, like mother, like son, right?” He could see Dub begin to turn to misty on the edges as Carman’s eyes narrowed. “Now let’s get this done; I’d like to have some daylight when I drive back over the mountain.”

 

“You arrogant little prick.” Dub’s voice blew apart as his body dissolved into a thousand black birds. “You deserve to die.”

 

Power flew from Carman’s outstretched hands as she wailed her anger. Bracing himself, Clint leaned into the blast, letting it flow over him and through his skin. With a thought, he called and birds answered; a mix of crows, ravens, finches, sparrows, and two hawks dived into their misty counterparts, tearing them apart with their beaks. He screamed in a multitude of cries, trying to come back together but unable to stop the onslaught. Choking down the bitter taste of smoke and malevolent hate, Clint saw Dother step around behind his mother and he braced for a second onslaught.

 

“Enough.” The hooded figure simply appeared between them, his aura filling the space with fiery red and orange. “This is exactly what he wants, you to get angry and act without thought.”

 

“He killed my son!” Carman shouted, but she pulled her magic back, trembling as she tried to control it. “You said I could have him.”

 

“Actually, I wanted you to reveal yourself,” Clint said, his voice calm. “Nice to finally meet you, Gwydion.”

 

His laugh was magic in and of itself; he tossed back his hoods, revealing wavy blond hair and golden skin. “Oh, you are a pleasure, Clinton ap Cernunnos; perhaps had I been dealing with you, we might have finished this without so much bloodshed.”

 

“Not too late to open negotiations.” Bit by bit, Clint filtered the power he’d amassed through his connection to Phil, draining it into the nature around them. Dub staggered to his feet, bleeding from a myriad of cuts.

 

“I’m afraid it is. The cauldron’s been remade and the dead walk. Arwan’s angry, Bridgit weakened, and all the pieces are in play,” Gwydion, the celtic trickster, said. “Had you been the one to call me, you would not have been willing to pay my price.”

 

“Guess we’ll never know,” Clint said with a shrug.

 

“Stop it.” Carman glowered at them both. “You couldn’t have known about him; no one knows.”

 

“Yeah, you might have a missed a few things while you were playing skeleton under the ground. There’s this thing called the internet; amazing how quickly you can type in cauldron, magic, lying  god and, boom, three options pop right up. From there it was an easy matter of elimination,” Clint explained. “Gwydion could raise you, together you fixed the cauldron, and now you’re trying to change the balance of the Grove. Only thing I don’t know is why, but I’ll figure it out eventually.”

 

“No, you won’t. You don’t have the time, unfortunately.” Gwydion shook his head. “This talking has gone on too long. I don’t need you to explain yourself to me.”

 

“Actually, not as long as I hoped, but it will do.” Clint took a fighting stance, extended his arm and motioned with his fingers. “Come at me, bro.” He chuckled. “Always wanted to do that.”

 

“There’s something off,” Dother said; he’d been suspiciously quiet, hovering in the background for the whole conversation. “He should be begging for his life right about now.”

 

“Yes, well, I know something you don’t know.” Gathering his power, Clint got ready. “I’m just the distraction. Darcy? Let it drop.”

 

The veil that kept the others’ presence from registering even with the god fell and all hell broke loose. Carman screamed and sent a pulse of magic straight at Clint; with Phil close beside him, Clint took it in and redirected it towards the cauldron, rattling the iron pot and the pile of rocks. The energy that created it turned back upon it -- creation and destruction from the same source. Or so he hoped.

 

Before Dub could react, Logan was on him, knives flashing in the late afternoon sun like sharpened claws. At Logan’s heels, the four white hounds harried Dub’s feet and legs. The undead mercenaries rushed to join the battle; Steve, Peggy and Sif formed a triangle, fighting off all comers. Scott’s aura flared, bright as the sun, and the fighters around him flinched back at the sight, leaving them open to his quick punches. Sam was with Fury, the two of them cutting a swath through the undead. Heading for Dother, Erik made the ground shake under their feet, the cauldron slipping to one side as some of its underpinnings gave way.

 

Natasha and Bucky went straight for Carman, attacking from two sides, their movements fast and in sync, like a deadly ballet; she fell back beneath the onslaught, magic flying from her fingers. With a bellow, Rumlow charged at Clint, fists clenched. Before he closed the distance, Phil appeared, planting himself in Brock’s path.

 

“Keep going,” Phil told Clint. “I’ve got this.”

 

With so much magic being thrown around, Clint continuing pouring power at the iron pot, all of his focus on the vibrations he was beginning to feel in the metal. He swallowed down the bile as filth washed over him, centuries of destruction and disregard for life.

 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Phil waver as Rumlow landed a vicious right on Phil’s temple; blood gushed down Phil’s face. Clint started to turn, but Phil shook his head when he saw. Pivoting, Phil slammed his knife into Rumlow’s stomach, yanking it up, leaving a jagged cut.  All around him, the fighting continued; Clint could barely register who was who; he could only manage his piece of the puzzle, to take out the cauldron at all costs.

 

“Clever boy,” Gwydion said, appearing right in front of him, brushing off the energy that flowed around him. “Probably would have worked had Carman been the only one to recreate the cauldron. I, however, can just run out the clock.”

 

He waved his hand and the bodies that had fallen to the ground stood back up, new wounds  aside. There was no stopping the undead; when Steve decapitated one, the body and head lifted up, dropping into the cauldron. After a flash of light, the merc crawled back out, picking up a weapon and going back to the fight.

 

“You are fascinating, I’ll give you that,” Gwydion said. “Throw your lot in with me and I’ll make you more powerful than you ever imagined. I could use a new student; it’s been a long time since I found someone worthy. Wouldn’t be the first time I trained a by blow of one of the Tuatha.”

 

“Sorry, but I’m already taken,” Clint answered, straining against whatever spell he had used to virtually isolate the two of them.

 

“Ah, yes, your druid. I suppose you could bring him along. We’ll make him malleable, and you can play with your toy,” he offered.

 

“And you’ll leave these people, this place, in peace?” Clint asked, thinking fast. Never make a deal with a god, he knew from the old stories, but maybe he could make this work.

 

“Yes. Most of them anyway. At this point, the most powerful will have to be either done away with or broken. But the rest would continue to live.” He shrugged as if none of it mattered, and it probably didn’t.

 

“Sorry, but I don’t think Phil will go for it, and whither he goest … you know that old phrase.” He doubted the god was playing straight. and, even if he was, letting them live could mean many different things.

 

“You care for him that much? That you would die here rather than live without him?” He seemed surprised. “You are a god, Clinton ap Cernunnos. Not a mortal.”

 

“I love him.” As simple as that, the truth, it seemed, did set him free. He breathed out and felt a weight fall away. “He is mine and I’m his. There is no me without him.”

 

“Ah, well. Die with him then.” He was gone in a blink. and Clint narrowly avoided a knife that swung his way, pulled back at the last second by Phil.

 

“Watch it,” Phil said, spinning to slash at another one of the mercs.

 

A shout drew his attention; Sif went down with a vicious wound in her thigh and three fighters crowded in on them. Jumping in front of Sif, Steve got a kick to the midsection; he stumbled back, throwing out a hand to catch himself, falling towards the cauldron.

 

“No!” Peggy shouted, reaching out but he was too far away.

 

It was Bucky who got there first, real hand grabbing Steve’s elbow and swinging him around, switching their places. Silver hand caught the edge of the iron; a wave blew outwards, knocking Clint back, his feet sliding across the ground. Steve pulled Bucky away, the two of them tumbling to the ground.

 

Taking the opportunity, Rumlow pressed Clint and Phil until they gave way. Anger flared and Clint let the reins go, giving himself permission to kick Brock’s ass. For Darcy and Kate and Phil, he put all his power into his punches, sending Rumlow reeling into a tree. Branches curled around the dead man, holding him in place. 

 

“I’m  going to have to go with plan B,” Clint told him. “Gwydion’s going to keep the cauldron together.”

 

“We.” Phil’s touch was warm and sure. “We’ll do it together.”

 

They’d had this argument; Clint believed the Grove needed Phil, but Phil had refused to give in. “Phil, I …” Clint began.

 

“I know,” Phil answered.

 

Carman screamed, an unearthly sound that rattled Clint’s teeth. “My son!”

 

Black blood covered Logan’s knives, the ground littered with splatters of what was left of Dub. The hounds had bits in their teeth, shaking their heads as they tore the last of him apart. Logan’s aura pulsed, strong and sure, an unending blend of colors that ran the gamut of the rainbow.

 

“Now,” Clint whispered to Phil. While everyone was distracted by Carman’s wailing, they ran towards the cauldron. In the back of his head, Clint made plans to push Phil away, to save him at the last minute; he was sure Phil was doing the same. He didn’t want to die, not when he finally had something to live for, but the others couldn’t survive unless he put an end to the zombie infestation. And there was only one way to do that.

 

“Rhoi'r gorau i!”  One word from Gwydion and Clint came to a halt, held fast by the spell. “Bod yn fy.”[1]

 

Clint could see it all. Steve and Peggy circled around Sif who was still fighting despite balancing on one leg.  On the other side of the cauldron, Sam, Fury, and Scott were surrounded, hard pressed by four fighters. Even as Carman flailed, flinging magic randomly, Logan closed and slashed across her chest. Natasha came from behind, burying her knives up to the hilt into Carman’s back.

 

“My god. Help me!” Carman cried as she sank to her knees, blood staining the ground.

 

“There is nothing I can do against a sacred blade,” Gwydion told her. “Had you followed my plan, this wouldn’t have come to fighting.”

 

“You abandon me?” The witch’s voice faded as she spoke. “Curse you. Curse all of you! Dub. Dub?” She looked about for her remaining son, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Damn him to hell. Damn you all.”

 

“Quite dramatic, isn’t she?” Gwydion said. “Such potential wasted on vengeance and anger. But you, you’ll be different. There’s no choice now; come with me and I’ll let you change the world.”

 

Behind him, Logan caught Clint’s eyes and, in that second, Clint knew what Logan planned. Natasha gave the slightest nod and it was decided.

 

“For the last time, I don’t want to be your prodigy or whatever you have in mind. I’m happy right here, thank you,” he told the god.

 

“There’s nothing you can do to stop this,” Gwydion told Clint. “Might as well accept your fate.”

 

“You’re right. There’s nothing I can do,” Clint agreed.

 

With one leap, Logan cleared the distance and grabbed the edge of the cauldron, swinging his feet over the lip and inside. The second his living skin touched the metal, a rumble rocked the earth followed by a pulse of energy. The air seemed to bend as cracks appeared in the iron, power leaking out. The undead mercs stopped like tin soldiers wound down; belatedly, Clint realized the danger they were in, raising an arm to protect his face as the light grew brighter, magic aura expanding in all directions.

 

“Run!” Steve shouted, snaking his arm under Sif’s shoulders.

 

Suddenly, the fragments began to float in the air, no longer flying apart but not knitting back together. Erik, feet planted and arms outstretched, was holding them in check by sheer will power.

 

“Get out of here,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “I can’t do this for long.”

 

Appearing from between two trees, Darcy walked up behind Erik and put her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll do this together,” she said, voice strangely doubled. “With Darcy’s power, I can shield us from the damage once you let go.”

 

“Damn it, Charles,” Erik practically growled. “You don’t know what the backlash will do to you.”

 

“Neither do you,” Darcy/Charles answered. “Now get everyone else out.”

 

“No one’s going anywhere.” Gwydion spoke to Erik. “Fitting, don’t you think, that the man who warned of a coming war will be responsible for the first mass casualties? There’s enough energy in the cauldron to affect all those who are sensitive in a forty mile radius. And your Grove will be the reason they’re dead.”

 

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Gwyd, give it a rest.” Brown hair pulled back in a neat clip, the newcomer looked like an average hiker in her boots, jeans and plaid shirt. “This got away from you and now you’re just trying to save face. Why on Earth would you bring that psycho bitch into it? You know she was crazy the first time; death would only make her worse.”

 

“Lecturing me like always, Auntie Ceri?” Gwydion glared at the goddess of magic. “Considering the number of fingers you’ve got in this little pie, I fail to see where you get off telling me what to do.”

 

“Still think your mom favored your sister? Haven’t you gotten over that yet?” Ceridwen sighed. “Holding grudges only increases your stress levels. Let it go already.”

 

“As if you’re not still pissed off at Tally,” Gwydion shot back.

 

“You got part of what you came for; Bridgit lost one of her strongest worshippers and that can go in your win column,” Ceridwen advised. “Considering Arwan’s prime just sacrificed himself for the greater good, I think discretion is the better part of valor. You know he remembers that trick with the pigs.”

 

“Fuck him,” Gwydion swore. “Carman was the one promising unending life. But archer boy over there is fair game now that he’s come into his own.”

 

“Have at it,” Ceridwen replied. “He’s his own man. But be warned, Cernunnos will have a thing or two to say about it.”

 

Gwydion vanished, leaving everyone waiting to see what the goddess would do next.

 

“Ah, my druid, you make me proud.” She walked towards Erik; scooping the air with her hand, she lifted the parts of the cauldron and began to bring them together as she closed her fist. Erik sagged, drained from the exertion; Darcy helped keep him upright. “You continue to grow in skill and your discernment is second-to-none. Listen to your instincts. Prepare your grove for troubled times. Oh, and pull your head out of your ass when it comes to that bard, Taliesin’s kin. Bonds don’t come along that often; don’t throw it away so readily.”

 

The iron seemed to melt in on itself until only a nugget the size of a tennis ball was left.

 

“Now, niece and nephew, you need to release these poor souls to wherever their journey takes them. Clinton, please end the reanimate spell, and Natasha, ferry them on to the next world.” When they both simply stared at her, she heaved a big sigh. “Just make something up. It’s the intent not the words.”

 

Still warm, the blob sat in Clint’s palm and Natasha covered the top with hers.

 

He said the first words that popped into his mind. “Genius Death, your art is done. Lover Death, your body’s gone. Father Death, I’m coming home.”

 

Natasha smile was wide as she answered him. “Hey Father Death, I’m flying home. Hey poor man, you’re all alone. Hey old daddy, I know where I’m going.”[2]

 

Voices whispered on the wind; bodies went slack and pooled on the ground as spirits blew onward, released from their thrall. Brock gave up with a long exhale, eyes dimming until he too was gone.

 

“Now I think this little problem had best find a new shape and purpose,” Ceridwen said. “Your idea to change it was a good one, you just needed more juice. I’ll take it back to Bala Lake and you’ll never recognize it after I’m done.”

 

Then she too faded. Clint remembered to breath, checking on Phil by touch, fingers on Phil’s forearm.

 

“Logan.” Scott managed two trembling steps and then he fell to his knees beside the body, cradling the head in his hands. “You arrogant bastard. What the hell were you thinking?”

 

Darcy, back to just herself, let out a little sob and clutched at Erik’s shoulder.

 

“Jean is going to blame me, and you know it. Damn it, tell Arwan you have to come back and fix this.” A tear escaped and ran down Scott’s face. He bowed his head over Logan’s lifeless face. “Damn it.”

 

“Phil,” Steve called in a quiet voice. “Sif needs you.”

 

That broke the ennui; Phil went to check Sif’s wound, and Erik wobbled a little before Darcy helped him sit down on a log. Sam was bleeding from two cuts, Bucky had a nasty looking black eye and Natasha was holding her left arm at an angle.  Exhausted but wound too tight to stand still, Clint began dragging bodies into the center of the small clearing; others soon joined him, creating a pile of the mercs. Rumlow was left to one side; Erik wanted to perform a ritual cleansing before they buried him. Logan they carried out with them, putting him the back of his truck and covering him with a blanket, and Sam drove him back town. It was Scott who stayed, calling in some deputies to help.

 

Clint stopped by the bike, running a hand over the leather seat. “He loaned me this.”

 

“Logan was like that,” Phil said. “If he decided he liked you, he’d move heaven and earth if you asked.”

 

“He was Arwan’s prime? Did you know?” Clint swung a leg over and handed Phil a second helmet. 

 

“He’d been around for a long time; he never really talked about it, but occasionally he’d slip up and mention something.” Phil’s arms slipped around Clint’s middle. “Let’s go home. There’s enough worrying to do tomorrow; I just want to hold you for a while.”

* * *

Clint felt the visitor even before he was completely awake. The clock read 3:47 a.m.; he slipped out of bed leaving Phil snoring slightly and made his way downstairs. Snagging two glasses and the Old Turkey, he let himself out the back door. Sitting on the edge of the porch, Cernunnos took the bottle; Clint joined him and passed him a glass.

 

“I lost a friend today.” Clint held out his hand and a hound bounded from the forest to have his head scratched. “Birth, death, rebirth. Didn’t quite work that way.”

 

“I’m sorry about Arwan’s prime. He was a good man to have in a chase.” Cernunnos sipped his drink. “Gave me a run for my money on that bike of his.”

 

“Logan rode his Harley on a hunt? I bet that was a sight to see.” Somehow, Clint could imagine it; Logan with a shotgun, keeping up with the horses and hounds. The moment of amusement faded as he remembered Logan’s lifeless eyes. “It should have been me.”

 

“Phil would have gone with you. The resulting explosion would have been too much for Erik to handle. Half the mountains would have come tumbling down; hundreds of thousands dead, not to mention a magically scarred wasteland that would attract all kinds of evil.”  Cernunnos gave the dog a treat from his pocket. “Logan stopped all that from happening.”

 

“He didn’t solve everything. Someone here started this and called the hunt. Don’t suppose you want to tell me who that is?” Clint didn’t expect an answer; life didn’t work that way.

 

“You’ll figure it out. But hurry, Samhain’s Monday. Someone’s going to have to pay the price eventually.” He poured a little more in his glass.

 

“24 hours. Great.” Clint sighed. “Hey, what the hell? I just faced down a witch, her sons, and a trickster. I can handle finding one human piece of shit.”

 

“Don’t think you’ll have to look very far.” Cernunnos said.

 

Clint took a long slip, scratching the dog’s chin as it closed its eyes in pleasure. “And there’s Dother to think about. He disappeared; seems he didn’t like a stand-up fight.”

 

They fell into silence as they drank, the only sounds coming from the woods around them. It was … peaceful, Clint thought, sitting with the god who was his father, dog at their feet, no need to speak. No dangers lurked, no pockets of darkness, just the simple shades of night. He should be cold in his t-shirt and boxers, bare legs swinging above the ground, but he wasn’t.

 

“If I were the target of the hunt, would you take me?” he finally asked. The question had been nagging him, the idea that he was the one the person wanted out of the way.  “I mean, it makes sense, right? The hunt shows up after I get here. If they wanted to get rid of Phil, they could have called you anytime. Why then?”

 

“When called, we are bound to answer to the initiator,” Cernunnos answered. “Of course, exactly how I go about it is left up to me.”

 

“So you could fart ass around long enough to figure out who really needs to be brought to justice?” Clint pondered that. “That’s sneaky. I guess I come by it honestly.”

 

Cernunnos laughed then drained his glass. “That you do, son. That you do.” He stood up. “Keep your wits about you until All Saints Day. This isn’t over yet. No matter how things got out of control, there’s a person out there who wants you and Phil gone.”

 

“Thanks.” Clint wasn’t sure what to do; the moment was awkward. Go in for a hug? Stay seated. His father settled it by walking briskly to the woods without looking back. Letting out a sigh, Clint finished off his whiskey then went back inside, locking the door and activating the wards behind him again for good measure. Suddenly he was cold, goosebumps rising on his skin. He hurried back upstairs and crawled under the covers, keeping his feet away from Phil’s warm body.

 

“You back?” Phil asked, turning his head and gazing at Clint. Just a hint of worry laced the words.

 

“Is it possible for gods to visit in the daytime rather than the middle of the night?” Clint groused, curling up along Phil’s length to get even closer. “Yeah, I’m back. And, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stick around for awhile. See how this goes. I’ve got the job at the pub and there’s enough odd construction work to pay my share. That’s if you want me.”

 

“I want you.” Phil’s smile was soft and welcoming. “Here with me. And you don’t have to worry about the money; I, um, sort of have that covered. Made a few good investments along the way. We can fix this place up and travel too.”

 

“Wait, are you saying  you’re rich? You could have started with that,” Clint said with a grin. “Now you’ll always know I fell in love with poor Phil before I knew rich Phil.”

 

“You don’t have to say it, you know,” Phil said with all seriousness. “Not because I did.”

 

“Well, it’s the truth, so …” Clint closed the short distance and kissed Phil gently. “Might as well, eh?”

 

They wrapped their arms around each other after Phil rolled over, Clint being the big spoon.

 

“Your feet are like ice,” Phil complained as he settled into Clint’s hold. “Give them here.”

 

He caught Clint’s ankle with a foot and pulled it between his own, letting his body heat drive away the chill.

 

“Bedwarmer,” Clint mumbled, eyes starting to droop. “We should get one. And an electric blanket. It’s going to get colder.”

 

“Ummm.” Phil hummed in agreement. “I don’t think we have to worry about heat.”

* * *

“Look at that head of hair,” Darcy said as she cradled the newborn in her arms. “I was sure he’d be a blonde.”

 

Jane smiled indulgently at her friend; the labor had been easy, only four hours between her water breaking and the baby arriving. They hadn’t had time to use an epidural; she was already seven centimeters dilated when she got into the hospital room. According to Thor, the baby came into the world like a little prince, immediately shaking the walls with his loud cry.

 

“My father had dark hair,” Jane explained.

 

“He has your brown eyes,” Thor said, resting his arm along the back of the raised hospital bed as he sat next to his wife. He looked even more besotted with her than before. “A beautiful brown-eyed boy.”

 

“A healthy baby. That’s all that matters,” Jane chided him.

 

“Here, hold him.” Darcy thrust the baby at Clint, and he had no option but to take the tiny bundle. “Put his head in the crook of your elbow and your other hand on his bottom. There you go!”

 

The crinkled face turned his way, and the newborn’s eyes gazed at him. Clint’s senses stirred looking down into the brown depths, a niggle of something old and wise hidden there.

 

“How much did he weigh?” Phil asked, peering over Clint’s shoulder at the baby.

 

“Seven pounds, eleven ounces. He’s twenty inches and he arrived at 5:37 p.m,” Jane supplied.

 

Five thirty. The boy blinked and a faint aura began to glow, a very familiar color. It couldn’t be, could it? Birth, death, rebirth. Had they poured enough power into the cauldron for one last bit of magic?

 

“Born in the middle of a battle,” Thor said proudly. “He’s going to be a great warrior like his namesake.”

 

“Namesake?” Phil asked.

 

“Logan Foster Odinson. In honor of our friend,” Jane answered.

 

With a solemn blink, Logan pursed his lips and screwed up his face in intense concentration. Within seconds, the smell hit Clint’s nose and he instinctively held the bundle away from him.

 

“Ew,” Darcy said. “Yep. Logan was a good choice.”

 

For a big man, Thor took his son ever so gently from Clint’s hands. “Healthy, indeed. He eats like a horse and poops like one too.”

 

“And on that note.” Phil put a hand on Clint’s back, nudging him towards the door. “We’ll leave you to your family.”

 

“Cowards,” Darcy hissed under her breath.

 

“Yep,” Clint agreed.

 

He didn’t say anything as they left the hospital and climbed into Phil’s truck. Only once they were on their way did he put words to his suspicions.

 

“5:37 p.m. You don’t think … is it possible?” Clint asked.

 

“Arianrhod is the goddess of reincarnation,” Phil answered. “If she knew what her brother was up to … yeah, she could do it.”

 

“Can you imagine what Logan was like as a kid? Raising him?” Clint whistled. “I’m glad we’re not the ones doing it.”

 

“The gods don’t give you more than you can handle,” Phil told him. “Kids aren’t that difficult to understand, not really. Give them love, stability, and a good home, and usually the rest takes care of itself.”

 

Thinking of his own childhood, Clint couldn’t imagine what he’d be like if he’d had those things. “I wouldn’t know, honestly,” he admitted.

 

“Don’t worry,” Phil told him. “I’m pretty sure there’s going to be some babysitting in our near future, so you can get some practice.”

 

“Practice for …” Clint’s words bled off as he thought about those years in the orphanage, wishing someone would adopt him. “Yeah. Practice would be good.”

 

 

 

 

[1] “Hold.” “Be mine”

[2] Allen Ginsberg’s poem, “Father Death Blues”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwydion is Arianrhod's sister and Bridgit's son. He's the celtic version of Loki.
> 
> For the record, here's who everyone worships/is related to:
> 
> Clint -- Cernunnos' son  
> Phil -- Bridgit's druid/Clint's Prime  
> Erik -- Ceriwden's druid (goddess of magic, knowledge and metalsmithing)  
> Charles -- a bard and a descendant of Taliesin (the greatest bard of Celtic tradition who was once Ceriwden's helper)  
> Logan -- Arwan's Prime (god of the underworld, death, savagery, and wildness)  
> Peggy and Sif -- descendants of Macha, the goddess of war  
> Steve -- descendant of Bran the Blessed, a great warrior and the one who originally jumped into the cauldron to destroy it the first time  
> Natasha -- daughter of the Morrigan  
> Bucky -- descendant of Nuada Onearmed/Natasha's Prime  
> Scott -- descendant of Belenus, the god of the sun & light (rays, get it?)  
> Jane -- descendant of Danu, the mother goddess  
> Darcy -- descendant of the Aos Si, the fairy people  
> Fury -- druid of Lugh (also known as the one-eyed god;)
> 
> The others -- Jean, Oro, Kate -- aren't on the list because they are in the story so little that I didn't research their backgrounds. 
> 
> And, yeah, I kinda like Dother. Don't know why, but he took on a different personality from his brothers as the story went along so I let him slip away. ;D


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final piece in the puzzle is revealed and someone faces the Hunt. Another surprise just might be on tap. It's Samhain and the party has begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter, an epilogue of sorts. Thanks so much for joining me on this ride. Don't worry, I'm sure there will be more AUs. I already have an idea for either a time travel story (Either Henry VIII time or Edward the III) or a pirate/British navy tale. :)

Clint carried two burgers and a basket of fries over to the tables they’d pulled together. With the pub closed for the day, they had the place to themselves. As Steve set up the chalkboard they used for specials,  Bucky shut down the grill and Peggy poured the beers. The lunch time confab was Phil’s idea; he’d been watching too many detective shows and wanted to put together a murder board. Saying seven heads were better than one, Phil had invited the others so they could brainstorm with one goal in mind -- figuring out who had called the Hunt.

 

“Alright, let’s start by putting our names,” Natasha said, taking a piece of red chalk and printing their names, one-by-one. “We’ll start with Phil.”

 

“No way Phil’s involved. He’s the one they went after,” Sam objected.

 

“Everyone’s a suspect,” Natasha told him. She started a column, titled it Snowball’s Chance, and put Phil’s name under it. She followed it with Steve and Peggy and Sam. “Even Clint.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Bucky protested. “He wasn’t in town when this started.”

 

“Maybe he already knew he was Cernunnos’ son, and he came to establish a beachhead in this Grove,” Steve suggested.

 

“Like some sort of scam? Pretend to find out about himself?” Bucky said. “Yeah, Barton doesn’t have that level of acting skills.”

 

“So, he made Emma punk out on her shift and forced me to invite him to stay with me?” Sam laughed.

 

“Could just be taking advantage of events,” Steve offered. “If Sam hadn’t offered, he’d have found another way to stick around.”

 

“Which reminds me,” Clint helped Peggy carry the beers. “I’ll be packing up my stuff in the next few days, but I’m going to finish the roof, don’t worry. Shouldn’t take more than two more days to get it done.”

 

“Packing?” Sam looked at him. “You’re leaving?”

 

“After Halloween.” Clint placed the beers in front of each of them. Sliding the tray on top of an empty table, he turned and found everyone staring at him. “What? Too soon?”

 

“What Clint is trying to say,” Phil supplied, “is that he’s moving in with me.”

 

Everyone erupted with congratulations. Sam beamed and claimed credit for getting them together; Steve slapped Phil on the back. Natasha had a real smile and Bucky gave Clint a shovel talk, promising that if Clint hurt Phil they’d never find his body.

 

Then they settled down to their food and got back to the puzzle before them.

 

“Erik?” Sam asked. “You can’t honestly believe he would do this? Cause so much damage to the Grove?”

 

“Erik’s been pressing for us to be more proactive for the last three years,” Natasha argued. “He could have taken things into his own hands.”

 

“You know, we might be going about this the wrong way.” Steve pushed his plate away and sat back in his chair. “What if the person thought they were helping the Grove and things got out of their control? Gwydion lies; who knows what stories he told to get cooperation.”

 

“A god with his own plans? Who’d imagine?” Peggy added. “That would still let out Erik, Charles, and Phil. They’re too savvy to get taken in so easily; no, you’d need someone who isn’t used to dealing directly with divine powers.”

 

“They’d still have their own agenda,” Bucky said. “You don’t get in that deep -- dealing with a god, calling the Hunt -- without wanting something for yourself.  Only one I know self-sacrificing enough to do it out of the good of his heart is Stevie here.”

 

Steve nudged Bucky’s shoulder. “Really?”

 

“Like you didn’t have a backup plan to jump in that cauldron?” Bucky challenged. When Steve’s eyes flickered down, Bucky nodded. “Sometimes you’re too much of a good guy.”

 

“I don’t know about that,” Peggy said, jumping into the conversation. “Steve can be very bad when he wants to.”

 

A red blush covered Steve’s cheeks. “Peg,” he said in a low voice.

 

“Don’t worry, Darling.” She leaned in and kissed his warm cheek. “I like that side of you.”

 

“And on that note,” Phil said, redirecting the conversation. “Have we gotten anywhere? All I see are possibilities.”

 

“We’ve narrowed the parameters.” Clint looked at the screen of his laptop where he’d been taking notes. “Powerful enough to call the Hunt and contact Gwydion, but not powerful enough to keep them in check. Part of the Grove. Focused first on Phil and then on me -- the attacks on Erik, Fury, and Logan were mostly tokens to keep them distracted. Knows Rumlow well enough to earn his trust and get him onboard with the plan; Rumlow brought the other men with him. Carman, her sons and the cauldron may have been all Gwydion’s doing.”  He stopped. “So what was the original plan? To upset the balance of the Grove? To what end?”

 

“With Phil out of the picture, Bridgit would drop from the most worshipped to second … no, third I think. Erik belongs to Ceridwen and, technically, so does Charles since he’s a descendant of Taliesin. That would put her first; Logan was Arwan’s prime, so he’d be next, followed closely by Arianrhod. The rest are spread out pretty evenly,” Phil explained as he snagged the last waffle fry from Clint’s plate.

 

“But now that Phil’s Clint’s Prime and Logan’s gone … that leaves Ceridwen and Arianrhod,” Peggy said thoughtfully. “Gwydion’s mom loses and his sister gains.”

 

“A family squabble?” Bucky huffed his displeasure. “All this for a son mad at his mom?”

 

“With the diminishing energy from worshippers, there’s less to go around. Erik’s right; we’re going to be seeing more of these inter-pantheonic power plays,” Steve said.

 

“And after that, the different pantheons will be drawing from the same well.” Natasha’s voice was filled with warning. “A contraction of the divine. Ragnarok, indeed.”

 

“Are we talking a Hunger Games between the gods?” Clint couldn’t imagine it. “Hungry, hungry hippos snapping at fewer marbles?”

 

“Interesting metaphor, but yes. Exactly,” Steve agreed.

 

“You just want to be Katniss,” Bucky said, lightly kicking Clint’s leg under the table. “I see where this is going. Phil gets to be Peeta; I call Finnick.”

 

“Dude, you’re not that good looking,” Clint said.

 

“Alright,” Phil said, standing and gathering some empty plates. “Let’s make a list of people who fit those criteria. Add that they can’t be worshippers of Bridgit; she’d directly intervene if one of her own was involved. Then let’s divide them up and see who’s been hanging out with Brock or acting strangely in the last few weeks. We’ve got until tomorrow night to figure this out.”

* * *

 

“You sure you brought enough punch?” Clint asked Sam as he helped unload the fourth cooler full of the stuff. There were two more in the car.

 

“Last year we went through five before 1 a.m.,” Sam said, lugging his cooler over to the folding table set up under the branches of an old oak tree. “Everyone loves Grandma’s Samhain punch.”

 

Eight tables were set around the perimeter of the clearing, all of them loaded with food and a plethora of alcoholic drinks and mixers. Big aluminum pans filled with freshly fried chicken, twelve different casseroles, a vat of potato salad, seven gelatin molds, yeast rolls, and even some fresh salads covered four tables. Two were laden with desserts -- cakes, cookies, brownies, with extra stashed below in plastic lidded containers.

 

“Are you expecting an army?” Clint asked, surveying the spread.

 

“Most come for the lighting of the fire and dinner, around six thirty. The music starts at eight and dancing goes until the last person falls down or sunrise, whichever comes first,” Sam told him.

 

Clint glanced around all the people who were arriving. Coleman lanterns lit the way until the fire was started, and everyone was busily preparing. Warding had been strengthened with clear marks for how far it extended. There were plenty of places to find privacy within their boundaries. Already, Peggy and Steve’s flirty banter was making Bucky roll his eyes; as the night wore on, it was just going to get worse.

 

After a frustrating search, they were no closer to finding an answer than before. For every person they marked off the lists, two others were put on. So many people had interactions with Brock and matched most of the criteria, it was a hunt for a needle in a haystack. Clint was hoping the person tipped their hand after a couple drinks.

 

“Scoping out places where I can debauch you later?” Phil murmured in his ear. “You, on your knees, me against a tree …”

 

“You’ve been into the punch already,” Clint said, turning and slipping his arms around Phil’s waist. “I thought we decided to go easy tonight.”

 

“Someone had to taste it. One glass per hour; that’s my limit.” Phil offered a red solo cup and Clint took it, peering in at the red liquid before he took a sip. Fruit flavor burst on his tongue -- pineapple, cherry, something a little more exotic -- followed by the smooth burn of good liquor.

 

“Wow. What’s in this?” Clint asked, sipping again.

 

Phil took the cup back. “Nobody knows for sure except for Sam, but I’m pretty sure one of the ingredients is Southern Comfort.”

 

Making grabby fingers at the cup, Clint pouted when Phil wouldn’t let him have more. “Fine, be that way. I’ll get my own.”

 

True to Sam’s prediction, people began arriving in earnest around six o’clock. Scott and Jean helped Charles over the rough terrain, parking his wheelchair close to the food tables. Right on time, Erik lit the fire, Emma standing for Logan in the brief ceremony. Then he called for an act of remembrance; people brought various items and tossed them in the growing blaze in memory of Logan. Clint had the original estimate on his car Logan had given him; fixing the old girl seemed moot now. He watched the paper go up in flames, Logan’s handwriting changing into ash. A chill ran up his spine when Scott threw his high school letterman jacket into the heat; Phil had explained how the two men had been rivals for Jean’s love, always competing at everything. Steve had one of Logan’s favorite cigars, Jean an old love letter, Emma one of his old t-shirts, and Bucky a pair of black fuzzy dice.

 

Then the eating began; paper plates were piled high and cups were kept filled. Darcy made the rounds with her phone, showing pictures of baby Logan. Charles was constantly surrounded, laughing, animated as he talked to everyone. Grief ran as an undercurrent, but they also celebrated another year, the protection of the Grove, and the caring of good friends.

 

As Clint took a third piece of chicken and another scoop of broccoli casserole, he bumped into Emma at the dessert table. “Try the lemon squares. They’re amazing,” she told him picking one up and depositing it on his plate. “Worth every second of exercise I’ll have to do to keep them off my hips.”

 

“I’m partial to the red velvet cupcakes.” Clint snatched one. “I have to start running again or I’m going to get as big as a house.”

 

Her eyes traveled along his body, the warm grey sweater and black jeans Phil had picked out for him. “I doubt that. Gods don’t seem to have that problem.”

 

“I’m not …” Clint had yet to come up with a good answer for when people mentioned his heritage.

 

“Yes, I know. I just like to see you blush,” Emma told him. “Does it go all the way down?”

 

“And how is your new dog?” He ignored her overtures; Emma flirted like breathing.

 

“A good bitch, she is. Although I doubt he’ll learn his lesson any more than those gods did. Men like that never change.” She forked up some greek salad onto her plate. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

 

“I don’t know about that,” Clint said, glancing over to where Phil was talking to Oro. “I kind of think you can.”

 

“Ah, Phil. How the gods jerk us around, eh? Leaving things out, making their own plans, flat out lying.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder … Erik’s right. Things are changing.”

 

Cries went up as Pietro picked up his fiddle, his sister sitting on a log beside him. He drew the bow across the strings, tuning as people called out names of their favorite songs. “Looks like it’s time for music,” Clint said.

 

“And dancing,” Emma replied with a real smile.

 

With just the instrument and her voice, the two launched into Gaelic Storm’s [“Rum Runner.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xurWdY4GD0)  The driving beat lured people to begin moving, and soon the stone was circled by dancing bodies.  Some left, Madge and some of the older women being walked out by younger men, and others kept one eye on the woods. Quietly, the watchers changed, and Bucky hit the food table with a vengeance while Sam prowled the perimeter.

 

Music blended with the darkness, notes filled with energy; Clint felt the pull of the Maximoff’s magic. Their auras pulsed in time to the beat; the people who left carried bits of color with them, their spirits lifted by their magic.

 

When Pietro started [“Johnny Jump Up,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u56R_qHTLVI) Phil grabbed Clint’s wrist and pulled him into his arms, swinging him around in a fast jig.  Time swept away as the music played; Clint grew warm and tossed his sweater into the growing pile of jackets and shirts. The faster the song, the more he sweated; Phil’s ink glistened in the firelight, his muscles stretching and contracting as they moved together.

 

_“A vision came over me of thundering hooves and beating wings in the clouds above_.”

 

The magic flowed, tendrils curling around the fire, touching the dancers. Auras flared, each person responding to Wanda’s voice. Clint senses swirled in time to the song, taking in all the changing emotions.

 

_“The thundering waves are calling me home calling me home to you.” **[1]**_

 

Steve gazed at Peggy with pure adoration and love. Red hair flying as she spun, Natasha basked in heat of the moment, released from constraints, her hands sliding along Bucky’s bare chest as they danced together. Erik stood still on the edge of the light, remorse pouring from his averted eyes, unable to look Charles’ way. Pure joy from Darcy, switching from partner to partner. A hint of a storm from Oro. Sadness surrounded Jean, deep regret around Scott.

 

The fiddle picked up and they segued into another tune.

 

_“A sad misfortune came over me, which caused me to stray from the land, Far away from my friends and relations, betrayed by the black velvet band.”_

 

A trickle at first then a steady flow, transgressions rose to the surface; some were small annoyances, worries about past actions, others shaded with deep remorse. Toes tapped the emotions out, the sinuous rhythm of bodies sloughing off real and imagined sins.

 

_“Her eyes they shone like diamonds and I thought her the queen of the land. Her hair it hung over her shoulder, tied up with a black velvet band.” **[2]**_

 

Colors turned to images, quick flashes of indiscretions being released and souls being set free from bindings of doubt. Triggers pulled in the heat of war. Harsh words that couldn’t be taken back. Jealousy. Heartbreak. Unworthiness. Responsibility gone wrong. Choices that had to be made.  They called to him; he opened his sense as he danced and injustices came, swirling in tattooed lines on his chest, winding down his arms, crossing over to Phil’s skin where they ran down beneath his waistband and out into the earth below, cleansed, forgotten, let go.

 

Wanda’s voice grew deeper, filled with grief, mourning for all the baggage carried that weighed people down.

 

_“She walks these streets in a long black veil. She visits my grave where the night winds wail._

_Nobody knows, no, and nobody sees; nobody knows but me.”_

 

The wind picked up as the words rolled over the clearing; power filled Clint and he shivered with it. The others danced on, unaware of what was coming, but Clint felt it in his bones, all parts of who he was. The wards flared; Charles’s head came around. Erik stopped and Phil’s arm slipped around Clint’s waist.

 

_“The scaffold was high and eternity neared; she stood in the crowd and shed not a tear. But sometimes at night when the cold wind moans in a long black veil she cries over my bones.” **[3]**_

 

They melted out of the trees, slinking on bent knees, snouts to the ground, herding those remaining  closer to the fire and the stone. The hounds encircled the clearing, growling slightly at anyone who approached. The riders materialized, dark horses with misty breaths, faces indistinguishable from the shadows. Pacing two steps into the open, Cernunnos sat tall, his yellow bird eyes unblinking, antlers crowning his feathered head.

 

Pietro finished the last notes, dragging his bow across the strings in a plaintive wail that echoed Wanda’s voice. _Over my bones. Nobody knows but me._

 

“I have been called.” Cernunnos’ voice was carried on the wind to every ear. “And I have come.”

 

No one dared breathe. The wards wouldn’t keep them safe if they’d invoked the Hunt; there was nowhere to hide from the relentless chase of your own conscience. With a glance, Clint took in all of his new friends scattered around the clearing, and all the others, caught between hunter and prey. Then he saw it, a glimmer of guilt, a momentary hesitation, and he almost laughed at how dense he’d been. The motive was so simple and clear, they’d all missed it.

 

He stepped forward and bowed his head as he spoke. “Cernunnos, Guardian of the cauldron of plenty,  I welcome you.” 

 

Natasha joined him. “Horned One, Dark One, Receiver of the Dead, Granter of Rest, I welcome you.”

 

Clint was surprised when Pietro and Wanda spoke in unision. “God of freedom, God of sexuality, God of cleansing, God of rebirth, we welcome you.”

 

“Mighty Lord of the Woods and Animals, Hunter and Hunted, the Grove welcomes you,” Erik finished, standing just behind the twins, mirroring the position of Bucky and Phil who were behind Natasha and Clint.

 

With the slightest nod, Cernunnos acknowledged their greeting. “I come only for the one who called me with lies and deceit. Turn over the violator and the chase will begin. Stand between the Hunt and our target, and you will face the consequences.”

 

“Whoever did this, step forward,” Erik said to people gathered. “In this, you die protecting the Grove, an act of sacrifice that will give you standing among those who have gone before.”

 

No one moved or spoke. Nervous eyes flitted from one to the other, everyone wondering who was the wanted one.

 

“Understand,” Clint said, turning so he could spear his gaze right at the guilty party. “The hounds will be turned loose on all of us. There is no escape from this judgement, only the choice to rescue the innocent or take them with you.”  She was wavering; Clint could see the hesitation in her frame. He pressed harder. “You started this for the good of the Grove; don’t let it end with the destruction of it.”

 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Emma said. She closed her eyes, exhaled then opened them again. “One sacrifice and the Grove would be protected from the first wave. That was the deal.”

 

“Emma?” Erik’s face showed his confusion. “Why? I don’t understand.”

 

“Because you’re right and no one would listen to you,” Emma said, her blonde hair shining the fire’s light.  “You’re a good man, Erik Lensherr; I don’t know why people can’t see that..”

 

“I thought you knew. I mean, I was as clear as I could be that I wasn’t able to care for you in that way.” Erik closed the distance between them but stopped as she held up her hand.

 

“Oh, gods, no,” she said with a strained laugh. “Don’t you dare blame this on unrequited love or such shit. I am not in love with you, Erik. For gods’ sake, you’re loopy over Charles even if you two can’t stand to be in the same room. No, this is about what action to take. We have to be proactive; the horse trading has already started among the gods. Fighting was the next logical step. As long as we had you, Phil, Logan, and Charles, we were going to be a target. Steal a high ranking druid from another god and the power shifts.” She shook her head at her own naivity. “I believed him when he said he’d split the power between his sister and himself; I knew Brock was a loose canon, but I couldn’t have planned for Barton to show up and throw everything into turmoil.”

 

“One sacrifice?” Charles asked, ignoring what Emma had said about Erik. “You were going to give them Phil, weren’t you?”

 

“Nothing personal,” Emma told Phil. “Gwydion has a grudge against his mother, so it was you. Could have easily been Charles or Logan or Erik. You understand? Four almost prime druids in one location?”

 

“Good God, Emma.” Bucky spoke for the first time. “That’s as cold-blooded a move as I’ve ever seen. Next you’ll say you’re glad Logan’s dead.”

 

“I wouldn’t have chosen him that’s for sure; I mean we had some good times, but his death decreases the chances of a direct attack.” Emma shrugged. “If I’d known Barton was a paltry demigod and Phil would become his prime, I wouldn’t have bothered to call the Hunt to get rid of him either.”

 

“You called the Hunt on Cernunnos’ son.” Darcy snorted in a half-chuckle. “Wow. I will not make a dumb blonde joke.”

 

“My plan would have worked,” Emma insisted, Darcy’s question making her angry. “And we’d all be safer.”

 

“Except that Phil would be dead,” Clint replied.

 

“And Gwydion would have had control of the Grove,” Fury all but growled. “Because you invited a trickster into our midst.”

 

“He lied to me!” She raised her voice. “The cauldron, Carman, her stupid sons … that was all him.”

 

“As you lied to me,” Cernunnos intervened. “Those who lay false charges are, by forfeit, mine. I give you a choice: run or join us. One hundred years and your debt will be paid, your soul freed from this sin.”

 

“I’m not … I have things to do. Dogs to care for, a career …” She deflated as she faced her fate. “I  don’t …”

 

“Emma.” Erik took her hand. “I’d like to see you again in the next world. Take the saddle and ride with them.”

 

“You would have done the same, wouldn’t you?” she asked, peering up into Erik’s eyes. “Tell me the truth.”

 

“I would,” he agreed and she sighed, happy with the answer. “But I would have controlled Rumlow and not trusted Gwydion. I’ve been alive too long to fall for his schemes.”

 

“I should have told you.” The admission left Emma’s lips and her aura changed, edges of black that were encroaching pushed back by icy white light.

 

“I would have helped you,” Erik responded. He bent and kissed her cheek. “You’ve one of the best seats in a saddle I’ve know. You’ll make it.”

 

“Of course I will.” A bit of the old Emma came back in that statement. She nodded as if all was decided. “I’ll keep a light on for you.”

 

She strode to where Clint stood, pausing to look at all of them before she spoke to Clint. “If you ever join the chase, I’ll see if I can change your mind about me.”

 

“I look forward to it,” Clint said.

 

A riderless horse appeared, pawing the ground and shaking the reins that hung down. Without hesitation, Emma took hold and swung up on the stallion, adjusting her seat until she was comfortable.

 

“Our business is concluded, Lord of the Hunt,” she said. “These people are innocent and can be left alone.”

 

“Let us ride then. There are many souls abroad tonight; we shall run them to ground.” With a last look at Clint, Cernunnos wheeled his horse around and the Hunt disappeared into the night, the echoing sounds of baying hounds lasting long into the night.

 

“Holy shit,” Peggy said breaking the silence. “I need to sit down.” 

 

“Grandma is never going to forgive herself for missing this Samhain,” Sam said, walking to the table and filling up his cup.

 

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, laying a hand on Erik’s arm. “For Emma.”

 

“Yes,” Erik replied, distracted as he gazed into the darkness. “As am I.”

 

“So,” Bucky said to the twins, “Methinks you are more than just good musicians.”

 

“Our mother is Ceridwen,” Wanda admitted.

 

“Which makes them demigods in their own right,” Charles supplied.

 

“Well, that explains why I feel so much better,” Steve said. “Always do after hearing you play.”

 

“The magic works much better with Barton here.” Pietro winked at him and Clint became aware of his rapidly cooling skin and just how much of it was on display. “I play and he takes it.”

 

“Pietro.” Wanda smacked her brother on the arm. “You know Clint is with Phil.”

 

“I’m just joking, woman!” Pietro shot back. “Honestly, can’t a guy have a little fun?”

 

“Speaking of fun, I guess we ought to pack up and call it a night? After what’s happened?” Steve asked.

 

“No. It’s probably best if we stay inside the wards,” Erik said “Tonight is a celebration of Logan’s sacrifice. Strike up the music and let’s get back to dancing; there’s still food on the tables and two more coolers of punch. I say we stay to see the sunrise.”

 

“Everyone grab a drink. I want to make a toast.” Scott filled up his cup and waited until they were ready. “To Logan who’s probably in Annwn right now, drinking rotgut whiskey and smoking a cigar with Arwan, telling a story about how stupid I am.”

 

Clint glanced at Phil as he raised his glass then tipped his own and took a long sip; the look didn’t escape Charles’ notice. “To Logan.”

 

“To baby Logan,” Phil added. “Who reminds us of the cycle of life -- birth, death and rebirth.”

 

As everyone drank, Charles raised one elegant eyebrow; Clint merely shrugged in return.

 

“Now, I think someone mentioned music?” Pietro picked up his fiddle. “We’ll start with one of Logan’s favorites.” He ran the first few bars and motioned for everyone to sing the familiar lyrics.

 

_“I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler, I'm a long way from home and if you don't like me, well, leave me alone. I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry, and the moonshine don't kill me, I'll live til I die.” **[4]** _

 

Clint let the nagging thought he shouldn’t enjoy the evening go and joined in with the others. Singing turned to dancing, and, after a few more drinks, others starting taking their turns, relieving Wanda so she could rest her vocal chords. Clint, after a quick confab with Pietro, launched into a fiddle version of “I’m a Believer;” hoots sounded then, everyone sang along with the chorus, changing the pronouns as Clint grabbed Phil and dragged him closer. With a last flourish, Pietro kept the same key but slowed down, the notes turning introspective.

 

_“Maybe I’m amazed by the way you love me all the time; maybe I’m amazed at the way I love you.”_

 

Phil blushed all the way to the roots of his hair; Clint just tugged him closer and kept singing.

 

_“Maybe I’m a man, maybe I’m a lonely man who’s in the middle of something he doesn’t really understand. Maybe I’m a man and maybe you’re the only man who can help me understand.” **[5]**_

 

“Clint.” Phil settled his head on Clint’s shoulder as Pietro played the bridge. “You know you’re going to have to sing to me all the time now.”

 

“Any time, Phil. Any time.”

 

 

[1][“The Old Ways” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pK_aDjO7_9g)by Loreena McKennitt.

[2][“The Black Velvet Band” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uQyRROidJNA)A man sees a woman while walking down the street; she steals a watch from her male companion and gives it to him. He’s then convicted of stealing because she disappears.

[3][“The Long Black Veil.” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F-4rY4g4Do) The song is about a man who is accused of killing his friend; he goes to the hangman’s noose rather than tell that he was sleeping with his friend’s wife the night of the murder. She’s the one in the long black veil. It can be slow and sad or played faster.

[4][“The Moonshiner” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KcAmrVQjleE)an apt song considering that Pittman Center was home to a number of famous moonshine stills (including my great-grandfather who had the best shine in the hollow). 

[5][“Maybe I’m Amazed”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cm2YyVZBL8U) by Paul McCartney.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I went there. Pietro and Wanda are adopted, their mother is a goddess and their father ... well ... *winks*


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint picks up strays and he just might get his happy ending ... because having Phil by his side is more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for coming along on this ride with me. Just in time for Christmas, here's the happy ending. You're comments have really made my day so many times; I am very grateful for all of you! So have a present ... a burger from Blue Moose in Sevierville and cupcakes from Tara Jean's for us to share! Happy Holidays.

****__

 

 

 

**_18 months later_ **

 

“Umph.”  A heavy weight landed on Clint’s chest, knocking the breath out of his lungs . He opened his eyes; first light was just filtering through the blinds. “Fuck,” he grumbled. 

 

“You wanted to keep him,” Phil said, rolling over and snuggling back down under the covers. 

 

With a sigh, Clint looked at the floppy eared pup with gangly feet and legs. Big brown eyes peered out of shaggy fur and a whine escaped just before the dog leaped up and licked Clint’s face. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But I’ve got to pee too.” 

 

Sliding out of bed, Clint padded across the wood floor he’d laid down and into the master bathroom where smooth tile was warmed by radiant heat. The puppy followed, slipping as he tripped over his ears and his paws. Part retriever, part hound, part something else, the dog was a lovable, happy camper who wanted nothing more than to chase a ball and go for hikes despite the abuse he’d suffered. Less than a month ago, Clint had been on the way home from the pub when he’d felt pain and distress. Tossed out on the side of the road, a mewling puppy with a broken leg was shivering. Lucky to even be alive, that’s what the Vet said after he took stock of the little guy. 

 

After stepping into his jeans and tugging on a sweatshirt, Clint left Phil in bed and took Lucky outside, letting the pup gambol around the yard chasing squirrels while he refilled the bird feeders and checked the salt lick. Being a demigod of the forest meant the yard was a gathering place for various denizens; all kinds of birds had settled in the trees, deer constantly wandered up to the porch, and a nearby overhand was home to a family of bears. Local dogs visited all the time, and both feral and outdoor cats slept in the sun on warm afternoons. They may as well buy stock in Petco and open a home for wayward animals. 

 

“Come on, boy,” Clint called. “You peed on that tree yesterday. Everyone knows it’s yours.” 

 

Lucky galloped over, stepping on an ear and tumbling ass over head but getting right back up. Back in the kitchen, Clint wiped his feet and caught the dog, cleaning the spring mud off of his paws before he tracked it through the house. Then Clint started a pot of coffee then took the stairs two at a time; putting a knee on the bed, he leaned over and nuzzled his nose into Phil’s neck. 

 

“Fifteen more minutes,” Phil mumbled into the pillow. 

 

“You could sleep a little more or we could have extra time in the shower …” He stood up, trailing his fingers along Phil’s bare shoulder. “Have I mentioned just how brilliant the bench idea was?” 

 

Rainfall showerhead and multiple jets -- the shower was an indulgence that he and Phil had built together and they thoroughly enjoyed it. Handmade accent tiles, a gorgeous shadowed glass door, and heated floor. A cedar plank waterproof bench with a fogless mirror to make shaving easier -- and to alleviate the ache of knees on hard tile. Clint had just stepped into the warm water when Phil joined him, shuffling half-asleep to wrap himself around Clint’s naked body. The balsam and cedar scented body sugar, courtesy of Jane’s new line of organic products she was selling out of Steve’s store, went a long way to waking them both up as Clint tried to suds up his and Phil’s skin without breaking contact. Phil’s wandering hands didn’t help keep them on track, so Clint gave in and they kissed and touched their way to a very satisfying morning release. 

 

“Okay, worth the extra fifteen,” Phil admitted as they toweled off. “Best way to start a new day. That and a cup of Snow Dragon tea we brought back from Scotland.” 

 

“Scones and some clotted cream,” Clint added. “Now that Peg’s making blueberry ones, we should bring some home.” 

 

They ate breakfast and then loaded the last box into the back of the truck. The sun was coming up over the mountains, long slanting rays that lit the mist as they passed through, a perfect day for the Spring Festival and Old Timer’s Day. Cade’s Cove would be packed with families and other visitors for the music, history, and food. Phil had two nature walks planned, easy one hour hikes that circled the old mill for everyone to enjoy. Clint had volunteered to demonstrate some woodworking skills including wooden peg construction and how log cabins were constructed. 

 

In the last six months, his handyman business had picked up to the point where he was making a lot of money from the bigger projects he was taking on. The latest was helping Bucky rehab a house for him and Natasha now that Steve was selling the condo; Clint had expected Nat to pick out a condo with a view but she surprised them all by choosing an isolated cabin on the river. Oh, sure, it had a killer panorama through the A-frame’s wall of windows, but the disheveled state inside made the low price tag understandable. Still, now that Bucky was also Fury’s Hand … all jokes about lending a hand over and done with  … the two were making a go of it together. Clint thought the distance between the house and civilization was so no one could hear their rather dramatic and very loud fighting as well as lovemaking. Somehow, it worked for them. 

 

Clint’s station was between Jane’s table and the Pub’s booth. Selling pasties, small handheld pastry filled with her signature roast beef and gravy, Peggy’s new engagement ring winked as she took money and bagged up lunches. Just behind him, Kate set up her archery range. Another surprise in his life had been taking on the teenager as an initiate; Phil was responsible for her druid training and Clint taught her the bow and a few other handy fighting skills. Now he had not one, but two followers; his life was getting more complicated, and he actually enjoyed it. 

 

“Logan Foster!” Jane called as the energetic toddler careened on unsteady legs, chasing Lucky across the grass. He almost got a chubby hand on the pup’s tail before he overbalanced and tumbled to the ground; using Clint’s playmate cooler, Logan pulled himself back up, wiped the dirt on his hands across his cheek and kept right on with the chase. “Don’t go far.”

 

“Uckee!” Logan laughed as the dog rolled on his back; the little boy threw himself down and twisted around, grinning at his mom. “Momma! Look!”

 

“I see you, little puppy,” Jane smiled at her hellion son; he barked back at her and started crawling on all fours. “Daddy will be here soon.” 

 

“That new scent is amazing,” Kate told Jane as she gathered up her arrows and dropped them in the wicker holder. “Works like a charm on migraines.” 

 

“It’s the eucalyptus. Opens up the sinuses and helps the blood flow.” Jane bagged up a bar of her homemade muscle relaxer soap for a woman in a flowered dress. “Phil helped me perfect it.” 

 

“Oh, Peter dear, look at this.” An older woman, in her late fifties with grey at her temples, stopped in front of Jane’s booth. “I remember there was someone over in Pittman Center who made the best joint cream. I wonder if this lady knows who that was.” 

 

“Aunt May.” The young brown haired teenager rolled his eyes. “Everyone doesn’t know everyone. That was what, 30 years ago?” 

 

“Are you talking about Coulson’s bruise cream?” Jane asked, smiling at the woman. “I’ve got an updated version right here. Phil makes it and I put the scent in. We’ve got Mountain Heather or Lavender Vanilla. Comes in a small pocket size or a larger jar.” 

 

“Coulson. Yes, that was the name. I used to use it after cheerleading practice.” May picked up the sample and sniffed. “Smells so much nicer this way.” 

 

“Hey, you’re Peter Parker, aren’t you?” Kate held the bow loosely. “You’re in my calculus class.”

 

“Yeah.” Peter ducked his head as he stammered an answer. 

 

“Want to shoot some targets?” She offered him an arrow. “I supposed to be demonstrating how the early settlers hunted for food -- everyone thinks they used muskets and stuff, but most didn’t own more than one -- but I think everyone’s down at the Oliver cabin for the lunchtime music.”

 

“Sure.” Peter looked up eagerly. “I mean, yeah, sounds okay.” 

 

Clint watched Kate talk the teen through stance, hold, and how to draw as he showed a family of five how to make a mortise and tenon joint then let the oldest boy who looked about twelve take a swing at the wooden peg with a rubber mallet. Keeping one eye on the wooden beam, Clint  opened his senses just a tiny bit wider; Peter’s aura flared silver, a stronger echo of the one that surrounded his aunt. 

 

“Some of us are heading to the Maximoff’s concert tonight at the amphitheater; you going to be there?’ Kate asked after Peter’s first arrow flew wide of the mark. 

 

“I … um … my Aunt would be alone …” Peter stumbled over his explanation, a bright flush on his face. 

 

“Nothing special, mind you.” Kate kept talking over him. “Billy … Kaplan that is … and where Billy goes Teddy goes. Eli, Cassie, maybe Tommy if he can get off work. We’re going to bring food and eat on the grass. Just hang out.” 

 

“I’ll whip you up some fried pies to take,” May called.  

 

“Good, it’s settled. We can pick you up … aren’t you renting that place out on 73 near Cobbly Nob, the white house with green shutters? Say about six?” Kate could definitely get her way when she wanted to; as Peter went to collect his arrows, Kate gave Clint a pointed glance. She was almost as good as Clint when it came to reading auras. 

 

“Aunt May?” Peter asked. 

 

“That sounds lovely, dear. Go with your new friends and have some fun!”  May’s smile brightened her face. 

 

“Pyder!!!” Logan barrelled into Peter’s legs, knocking the teen to the ground so the toddler could crawl over him. “Pyder swing!” 

 

“Whoa there, buddy.” Kate caught Logan under his arms and lifted him up. “You can’t go attacking new people. We’ve had this discussion before.”

 

“‘Awk no fun,” Logan pouted. “Pyder swing.” 

 

“Sorry,” Jane said, taking her wiggling son. “His dad was supposed to pick him up, but got called out. Somebody was burning brush and it got away from them. Anyway, Logan likes to pretend everyone is an animal. I guess you’re a spider.”

 

“Clint and I are hawks,” Kate added. “I’d watch him for you, Mrs. Odinson, but I’m working.”

 

“Actually, um, I’ve got some experience babysitting,” Peter offered reaching out a hand for the little boy to hold onto. “My aunt wanted to shop the arts & crafts tables; maybe I could hang out here until she’s done? If it’s okay with her.”

 

“Shop without a teenage boy sighing every five seconds? Yes, that’s okay.” May punched him lightly in the arm. “I won’t be more than an hour. You have money for lunch; eat whenever you’re hungry. I’m going to get some of that fried chicken that smells divine.”

 

“So, buddy, you want to go run around?” Peter asked Logan as Jane handed him over. 

 

“Pyder swing!” Logan wiggled. “Swing Olverine!”

 

When Peter looked at Jane, she laughed. “That’s him. He’s  a wolverine, and he loves it when people swing him by his arms.”

 

“Ucky!” The toddler pointed at the pup who was lying at Clint’s feet and did a backflip out of Peter’s hold, landing on his feet on the ground. 

 

“Holy … he’s fast,” Peter said. Fortunately, the dog grabbed all of Logan’s attention.

 

“Oh, you have no idea,” Clint told the kid. “You should see him around a motorcy …”

 

“Don’t,” Jane warned.

 

“CYCLE!!!!” Logan danced in a circle, wobbled and plopped on his but. “Ride cycle, ‘Awk?” 

 

Clint grimaced; he’d forgotten just how smart Logan was. “Not right now, bud. Maybe later.” 

 

“Want cycle.” Logan’s lip trembled and tears gathered in the corner of his eyes. 

 

“I bet Peter will take you for a walk,” Jane said, trying to forestall a temper tantrum. 

 

Logan thought about it. “Creek?” he asked.

 

“Do you mind?” Jane asked Peter. “It’s very shallow but you have to watch him every second. It’s just right behind us.”

 

“We’ll stay within sight,” Peter promised. 

 

As the left, Lucky tagging along, Clint filed away yet another person drawn to the area. The Grove was growing, picking up new members, and that fact troubled him. The gods were still moving pieces around the board and Clint wished he knew why.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

“You two coming to hear the music?” Kate finished loading her small Volkswagen, shutting the trunk lid. 

 

“I think we’re going to have a quiet evening at home,” Phil replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the circle for the next lesson.” 

 

“Communing. Yeah, I know.” Kate was having a hard time stilling her mind and listening to the forest. “Woo-hoo.” 

 

“The first step …” Phil started. 

 

“... is to know my place in the music of the spheres,” Kate finished. “I’ll be there.”

 

“It just takes time,” Phil told her. “Sometimes it …”

 

“Hey!” The woman’s voice came from nearby and was followed by a slamming car door. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

 

“Getting away from you, you bitch!” The man was in a Dodge Ram pickup, sitting behind the wheel. “You are a piece of work, you know that?” 

 

“What? Because I won’t put out and roll over? You give me a ride in your truck and now I owe you?” In jeans and a Star Wars t-shirt, the blonde was statuesque and fit; she planted her feet on the ground and leaned towards the open window. 

 

“I drove you all the way from Arkansas, listened to you bitch the whole way,” he spat back at her, turning the key in the ignition and starting the hemi engine. “End of the line, baby.” He threw it into reverse and started to back out of the parking spot. 

 

“HEY! My stuff!” She darted around and blocked the way. “You jerk off! Give me my things.”

 

“Get the fuck out of my way, woman,” he shouted at her, revving the truck. The big vehicle jerked, almost hitting her, but she didn’t move out of the way; instead she slammed her hands onto the tailgate. 

 

“GIVE ME MY THINGS!” she yelled and Clint could swear the earth trembled under his feet. 

 

“Do you need a hand?” Phil asked, coming out from between the cars, Clint and Kate behind him. 

 

Another family paused at their minivan, watching the whole scenario. With so many witnesses, the driver cursed. “Fuck it. Here. Take your shit and go away.” 

 

A backpack came flying out of the window, landing in a puddle of water left from yesterday’s rain. Next was a small suitcase, following the same trajectory. Clint stepped in and caught the laptop case before it had a similar fate; the woman grabbed the strap on the purse that came last.  As soon as she moved, the truck backed out, spinning its wheels before he drove away. 

 

“Well, this just takes the cake,” the woman said. “Perfect end to a miserable year.”

 

“Could be worse,” Clint said. 

 

“Could be raining?” she asked with a half-grin. “Let’s see, it’s a 106 miles to Chicago, we’ve got half a pack of cigarettes ... “

 

“It’s dark and we’re wearing sunglasses.” Clint held out a hand. “Clint Barton.”

 

“Carol Danvers. I’m really not the complete loser I appear to be.”

 

The second skin touched skin, Clint’s sight shifted, and the woman’s blonde hair was caught back in a warrior’s braid, leather vest decorated with celtic symbols, a long sword in one hand and a spear in the other. Tattoos swirled down her arms, meeting Clint’s lines of ink, heritage writ large on her bare arms. Her eyes widened slightly and then Clint stepped away. 

 

“You should hear the story of how Clint ended up here,” Phil said, covering the awkward silence. “I’m Phil, by the way.” 

 

“My significant other,” Clint added, winking at Phil. “You look like you need a lift. Can we take you somewhere? Hotel?”

 

“I’m a little short on cash at the moment,” Carol admitted. “It would need to be somewhere cheap.” 

 

Clint exchanged a look with Phil. “Actually, I know the perfect place. A boarding house of sorts; Sam’ll let you stay until you get a paycheck.”

 

“Darcy and Sif will be excited to have another woman around,” Katie exclaimed. “You’ll love it there. Big old farmhouse … oh, are you allergic to dogs? Sam’s got a hound named Riley … and the food’s great since he’s a cook at the pub. I think Mack’s looking for a waitress at the Lodge and Peg needs a part-time bartender.” 

 

Carol blinked a couple times, looked at all three of them then got her wits together and answered, “I’m not really good around alcohol.” She shrugged and Clint read a wealth of information in the small movement. “I can fly just about anything, but I doubt that’s useful around here.” 

 

“Didn’t Maria say one of her pilots quit?” Clint asked Phil. The way things were falling into place, Clint knew Carol was meant to stick around. “She was bitching about keeping good ones the other night.” 

 

“If you can handle dealing with tourist families, Maria owns one of the helicopter tour companies in Sevierville. Take ‘em up and show ‘em the mountains for thirty minutes at a time,” Phil said. “We’ll give you her number.” 

 

After a second of indecision, Carol nodded and accepted her fate. “If it’s got wings, I can manage,” she said, hitching her backpack over her shoulder and grabbing the handle of her luggage. “And I’ll take that ride if the offer’s still open.” 

 

“Jump in the truck,” Clint said, leading the way. “Just watch out for Lucky. He’s small but he thinks he runs the roost.” 

 

She laughed at the sight of the puppy with his nose pressed against the driver’s side window, watching them approach. “Okay, maybe this isn’t so bad a day after all,” she said. “A place to sleep, a possible job, a cute puppy … what else can go wrong?” 

 

“You have no idea,” Clint said, opening the door for her. “Around here? Just about everything. But the people make it worth it.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
